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THE  FRIENDSHIPS 


OF 


MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD 

AS  RECORDED  IN  LETTERS  FROM 

HER  LITERARY  CORRESPONDENTS 


EDITED  BY 


THE  REV.  A.  G.  L'ESTRANGE 

EDITOR   OF   "tHB   LIFE    OF  MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD  "    AND 

AUTHOR   OF    "tHB    LIFE   OF  THE   RF.V.  W.   HARNESS*' 

"the  VILLAGE   OF   PALACES "   ETC. 


"Whoever  reads  my  letters — that  is,  the  letters  written  to  me — will 
find  them  interesting." — M.  R.  Mitford  to  J.  T.  Fields 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER   &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 

1882 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

Preliminary  Observations. — Mrs.  Mitford's  Sociability. — Her  Letters  and 
Verses. — Dr.  Mitford's  Character. — His  Speculations  and  Correspon- 
dence with  M.  St.  Quintin Page  i 

CHAPTER  I. 

Political  Friends  of  Dr.  Mitford. — Letters  from  Mr.  Shaw  Lefevre. — 
Poem  by  Miss  Mitford. — Letter  from  S.  J.  Pratt. — Letters  from  Cob- 
bett 22 

CHAPTER  n. 
Letter  from  S.  J.  Pratt.— Letter  from  the  Rev.  J.  Mitford.— 77^^  Poet- 
ical Register. — Letters  from  R.  A.  Davenport,  J.  P.  Smith,  and  Lord 
Holland. — Weston  Grove 37 

CHAPTER  IIL 

Sir  William  Elford. — Letters  from  Him. — Specimens  of  his  Poetry. — 
Letters  from  J.  Perry  and  A.  Madocks 56 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hofland. — Letters  from  Mrs.  Hofland. — Miss  Mitford's 
Tragedies. — Letters  from  Miss  Porden. — Letters  from  P.  Bayley  .    83 

CHAPTER  V. 

Letters  from  Miss  Porden  and  Joanna  Baillie, — Macready. — Letters  from 
Macready  and  Mrs.  Franklin 99 

CHAPTER  VL 
Miss  Mitford's  Tragedies. — Negotiations  with  Macready. — Mrs.  Trol- 
lope's  Assistance. — ^Letters  from  C.  Kemble,  Dr.  Milman,  and  Mrs. 
Hemans 114 


iv  Contaits. 

CHAPTER  VI r. 
Miss  Mitford's  Suitors. — Letter  from  a  Stranger. — Letters  from  Dyce, 
Young,  Mrs.  Hofland,  and  Mrs.  Hall. — Poetical  Address  by  Rliss  S. 
Strickland Page  127 

CHAPTER  VIH. 

Letters  from  Mrs.  Hofland,  Miss  Strickland,"  Douglas  Jerrold,  Miss  Sedg- 
wick, and  Mrs.  Trollope 145 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Letters  from  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  Mrs.  Trollope,  and  Miss  Sedg- 
wick     162 

CHAPTER  X. 

Letters  from  Miss  Sedgwick  and  Mrs.  Howitt 177 

CHAPTER  XL 

Letters  from  N.  P.  Willis,  Miss  Martineau,  and  Mrs.  Howitt. — Descrip- 
tion of  a  Country  Wedding  by  Miss  Mitford. — Letters  from  Mrs.  Hof- 
land      189 

CHAPTER  XH. 

Letters  from  Miss  Sedgwick,  N.  P.  Willis,  W.  Howitt,  and  George  Tick- 
nor 206 

CHAPTER   XIH, 
Letters  from  Lady  Dacre,  Mrs.  Howitt,  and  Miss  Sedgwick  .    .     .    218 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Letters  from  George  Darley,  Harriet  Martineau,  Lady  Dacre,  and  Miss 
Mitford 231 

CHAPTER   XV. 

/y    Miss  Barrett.  —  Letters  from  Miss  Barrett,  Lady  Dacre,  the  Duke  of        > 
Devonshire,  Mrs.  Howitt,  and  Joanna  Baillie 241         I 

CHAPTER  XVL 

J,       Letters  from  Mrs.  Jameson  and  Miss  Barrett. — Mr.  Kenyon. — Poem. —  . 

Mrs.  Opie. — Letters  from  Mrs.  Opie,  Miss  Barrett,  Lady  Dacre,  and  J 

"  Barry  Cornwall " 254 


Contents.  v 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

Miss  Sedgwick's  Visit  to  England. — Letters  from  Miss  Sedgwick,  Mrs. 
Howitt,  Mrs.  Hofland,  and  Mrs.  Opie Page  270 

CHAPTER   XVHI. 
Letters  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Barrett. — Description  of  Silchester. — 
Decline  of  Dr.  Mitford. — Letters  from  Mrs.  Trollope  and  Miss  Sedg- 
wick     278 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
Biographical  Sketch  of  Stackall,  by  the  Rev.  W.  Lynn. — Letters  from 
Mrs.  Howitt,  Sergeant  Talfourd,  Alexander  Dyce,  Mrs.  Clive,  Mrs. 
Trollope,  and  Crabbe  Robinson 290 

CHAPTER  XX. 

I-etters  from  James  Fields,  Miss  De  Quincey,  J.  Ruskin,  Sergeant  Tal- 
fourd, and  liarriet  Martineau 304 

CHAPTER  XXL 
Letters  from  J.  Whittier,  J.  Ruskin,  Tom  Taylor,  Dean  Milman,  and 
Bayard  Taylor 316 

CHAPTER   XXII. 

Mr.  Digby  Starkey. — Critiques  by  Miss  Edgeworth. — Letters  from  Digby 
.Starkey,  Carleton,  Eliot  Warburton,  and  Lord  St.  Germans. — Proposed 
Historical  Work. — Death  of  Eliot  Warburton 327 

CHAPTER  XXIIL 

Miss  Jephson. — Letters  from  Miss  Jephson  and  from  Miss  Mitford  to 
Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Starkey 349 

CHAPTER  XXIV, 
Letters  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Starkey      .    366 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

Letters  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Starkey      .    3S5 

CHAPTER  XXVL 

Letters  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Starkey     .    398 

A* 


vi  Contents. 

CHAPTER  XXVIL 
Letters  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Starkey  .  Page  419 

CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

Letters  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Starkey. — Death 
of  Mary  Russell  Mitford 435 

INDEX 457 


THE  FRIENDSHIPS 


OF 


MARY  RUSSELL  MITFORD. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Preliminary  Observations.— Mrs.  Mitford's  Sociability, —  Her 
Letters  and  Verses. — Dr.  Mitford's  Character. — His  Spec- 
ulations AND  Correspondence  with  M.  St.  Quintin. 

There  is  something  dear  to  us  in  every  object  associated 
with  those  we  have  loved  or  admired.  The  dwelling-place 
of  a  celebrated  person,  though  now  merely  an  ivy-covered 
ruin,  possesses  something  of  national  interest ;  and  the  gift 
of  a  departed  friend,  be  it  but  a  faded  flower,  is  treasured  as 
inestimably  precious.  This  feeling  is  sometimes  purely  senti- 
mental, and  exists  even  where  the  connection  of  the  me- 
morial with  the  person  has  been  accidental  and  unimportant. 
But  I  imagine  that  in  most  cases  there  is  some  solid  founda- 
tion for  such  emotions.  As  the  mental  characteristics  of 
man  are  closely  connected  with  his  physical  constitution,  so 
are  they  also  largely  influenced  by  the  surroundings  of  his 
daily  life.  Occasionally  we  can  directly  trace  the  bearing 
of  some  unexpected  occurrence  upon  our  future  destiny,  and 
the  views  of  the  most  eminent  people  have  been  largely 
affected  by  the  age  and  country  in  which  they  have  lived. 

Thus  to  those  by  whom  the  memory  of  Mary  Russell  Mit- 
ford  is  cherished,  the  letters  which  form  these  volumes  will 
be  interesting  not  merely  as  having  been  valued  and  pre- 
served by  her,  but  as  having  to  some  extent  left  an  impress 
upon  her  mind.     She  sought  to  profit  by  the  thoughts  of 

I 


2  Letters  to  Mifs  Mitford. 

others,  and  the  bright  mosaic-work  of  her  own  letters  is 
largely  formed  of  reset  gems.  Here,  also,  we  learn  who  her 
friends  were,  with  what  sentiments  they  regarded  her,  and 
what  subjects  they  thought  would  give  her  pleasure.  Be- 
yond this  the  letters  have  an  intrinsic  value  of  their  own  as 
coming  from  the  pens  of  some  of  the  most  successful  au- 
thors of  the  day;  and,  as  their  character  must  depend  upon 
the  recipient  as  well  as  the  sender,  we  may  suppose  that,  be- 
ing written  to  the  authoress  of  "  Our  Village,"  they  will  not 
only  contain  literary  judgments  and  opinions  founded  upon 
wide  experience,  but  will  also  confide  some  more  recondite 
and  personal  feelings. 

We  naturally  inquire,  first  of  all,  how  Miss  Mitford,  who 
lived  in  a  secluded  Berkshire  village,  and  seldom  visited 
London,*  became  acquainted  with  so  many  celebrities. 
More  than  one  cause  produced  this  result.  She  was  a  suc- 
cessful dramatist,  the  editor  of  an  annual,  a  contributor  to 
periodicals,  and  from  time  to  time  people  wrote  to  her  ex- 
pressing admiration  for  her  works.  But  mere  literary  suc- 
cess has  never  made  any  one  socially  popular ;  other  attrac- 
tions are  requisite,  and  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning  considered 
Miss  Mitford's  conversation  to  be  even  better  than  her 
books.t  Thus  we  find  that  in  the  summer-time,  when  she 
gave  strawberry-parties  at  her  cottage,  the  road  leading  to  it 
was  crowded  with  the  carriages  of  all  the  rank  and  fashion 
in  the  county.  By  example  as  well  as  precept  she  "  bright- 
ened the  path  along  which  she  dwelt."  Her  kindly  nature 
did  not  exhaust  itself  in  a  girlish  enthusiasm  for  pets  and 
flowers,  but  went  forth  to  meet  her  fellow-men  and  women, 
whose  virtues  seemed  to  expand  and  whose  faults  to  vanish 
at  her  approach.  "  There  is,"  she  writes,  "  an  atmosphere 
of  love,  a  sunshine  of  fancy,  in  which  objects  appear  clearer 
and  brighter,  and  from  such  I  sometimes  paint." 

*  Except  in  early  youth. 

t  "  In  my  own  mind,  and  Mr.  Kenyon  agrees  with  me,  she  herself  is 
better  and  stronger  than  any  of  her  books,  and  her  letters  and  conversa- 
tion show  more  grasp  of  intellect  and  general  power  than  would  be 
inferable  from  her  finished  compositions,"  Mr.  Fields  says.  "  Her  voice 
was  a  beautiful  chime  of  silver  bells." 


Mrs.  Mitford.  3 

Miss  Mitford's  friendships  extended  from  the  highest  to 
the  lowest  classes  of  society,  but  her  sympathies  were  espe- 
cially enlisted  on  behalf  of  genius.  Great  thoughts  and  noble 
enterprises  had  a  peculiar  charm  for  her;  hence  she  culti- 
vated those  eminent  persons  with  whom  her  talents  brought 
her  into  connection,  and  drew  round  her  a  brilliant  circle  of 
authors,  artists,  and  politicians.  Her  playful  humor  and  joy- 
ous enthusiasm  cheered  and  refreshed  their  lives  of  toil,  and 
they  in  turn  reflected  back  upon  her  an  enduring  lustre.  Miss 
Mitford  does  not  stand  upon  a  cold,  isolated  height,  but  will 
ever  be  associated  with  the  intimacies  she  formed  and  the  so- 
ciety in  which  she  moved.  She  even  carried  on  an  affectionate 
correspondence  with  many  persons  whom  she  had  never  seen. 

It  is  not  improbable  that  her  sympathetic  tendencies 
were  partly  hereditary,  for  both  her  parents  were  essentially 
sociable  and  fond  of  company.  Her  mother  formed  the  cen- 
tre of  a  little  homely  coterie  at  Reading,  and  her  letters  to 
her  daughter  invariably  record  some  grand  five-o'clock  din- 
ner or  select  "  sandwich  party  "  at  which  she  had  been,  or 
some  friendly  gathering  at  her  own  house.  Her  accounts 
of  these  festivities  show  considerable  observation,  and  are 
amusing  both  for  her  opinions  about  the  guests  and  for  the 
minute  details  she  gives  of  the  good  fare  at  the  entertain- 
ments. 

Mrs.  Mitford  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Hans  Place,  June  2, 1802. 

Sweet  Mezza*  is  hard  at  work  doing  a  prize  composi- 
tion. She  does  not  return  to  dinner  till  half-past  four,  as 
her  drawing-master  attends  at  half-past  three.  The  paper 
does  not,  you  will  observe,  give  the  same  account  as  you 
heard  yesterday  at  Mr.  Taplin's  of  the  Union  Masquerade, 
but  Rowden  saw  Lady  Bessborough  last  evening,  who  was 
there,  and  who  mentioned  the  confusion  that  prevailed  in 
similar  terms.  Her  ladyship's  own  dress  was  demolished  in 
the  scuffle.  This,  however,  does  not  deter  her  from  attend- 
ing the  masquerade  at  Ranelagh  to-night,  which,  it  is  thought, 
will  be  better  conducted.     She  mentioned  the  Prince  supped 

*  Miss  Mitford. 


4  Hospitalities. 

alone  with  Mrs.  Fitzherbert  and  another  lady,  and  that  their 
privacy  was  broken  in  upon  by  the  mob  ere  they  had  finished 
their  repast.  Mrs.  St.  Quintin  pressed  me  much  to  dine 
with  her  to-day,  but  I  declined  it.  She  and  Miss  Rowden 
are  to  dine  with  us  to-morrow  on  the  pig  you  are  to  send  us. 

Those  who  are  at  all  acquainted  with  Miss  Mitford's  early 
history  will  remember  M.  St.  Quintin,  the  French  tmigrt,  at 
whose  school  in  Hans  Place  she  was  educated.  The  Mit- 
fords  became  very  intimate  with  his  family,  and  sometimes 
stayed  with  them.  Miss  Rowden  was  the  governess  who 
married  M.  St.  Quintin  after  the  death  of  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Mitford  to  Dr.  Mitford,  Reading,  Berks. 

Hans  Place,  June  3, 1802. 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Harness  called  on  us  last  evening,  and  sat 
near  an  hour.  They  wished  us  to  dine  there  this  day,  as 
they  had  some  captain — I  forget  the  name — to  dine  with 
them,  but  Mary's  lessons  both  before  and  after  dinner  fur- 
nished us  with  an  excuse.  I  told  you  I  had  asked  Mrs.  St. 
Q.  and  Rowden  to  partake  of  the  pig,  and  if  M.  St.  Q.  is  not 
obliged  to  go  into  town  he  will  also  dine  with  us.  Dr.  H.  saw 
Mr.  Harley,  and  told  him  that  we  were  at  76  Hans  Place;  he 
may  look  long  ere  he  finds  that  number  here ;  but  I  suppose 

he  will  have  sense  enough  to  go  to  22  to  learn  where  we  are. 

***** 

I  have  bought  some  salmon,  and  had  a  baked  goose- 
berry pudding  made,  which,  with  my  pig,  will  afford  ample 
provision  for  our  small  party;  and  purchased  a  bottle  of 
sherry.  We  only  wish  you  were  here  to  partake  of  it  with 
us,  as  it  would  relish  much  better. 

Mezza  has  got  her  little  desk  here,  and  her  great  dic- 
tionary, and  is  hard  at  her  studies  beside  me,  on  which  ac- 
count and  the  warmth  of  the  morning  her  little  spirits  are 
all  abroad  to  obtain  the  prize,  sometimes  hoping,  sometimes 
desponding.  It  is  as  well,  perhaps,  you  are  not  here  at  pres- 
ent, as  you  would  be  in  as  grand  a  fidget  on  the  occasion  as 
she  herself  is.     Adieu.     God  bless  you. 

Our  most  affectionate  love  is  yours. 

Mary  Mitford. 


Concert.  5 

Postscript  by  her  daughter. 

Mumpsa  *  has  been  telling  you  a  parcel  of  stories,  for  I 
do  not  care  a  brass  farthing  about  the  prize,  and  I  am  certain 
I  shall  not  have  it. 

Dear  Croppy  sends  you  her  love  and  good  wishes. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Mrs.  Mitford. 

Hans  Place,  Sept.  3,  1802. 

M.  St.  Q.  and  some  of  the  young  ladies  and  the  Wrights 
are  going  to  Richmond  by  vi^ater  on  Sunday.  They  wished 
me  to  persuade  you  to  join  them  there,  but  I  rather  thought 
you  would  prefer  taking  a  snug  dinner  in  Hans  Place  at  five 
o'clock  with  Rowden  and  Mam  Bonette  (herself)  to  joining 
their  Johnny  Gilpin's  excursion.  M.  St.  Q.  wished  not  to  go, 
for  he  says  that  he  should  enjoy  your  company  much  more 
than  the  water-party ;  but  as  he  is  going  soon  to  France,  and 
could  not  go  at  any  other  time,  and  the  young  folks  had  set 
their  hearts  on  the  excursion,  I  persuaded  him  to  go. 

You  are  a  dear  flatterer,  my  darling,  but  I  have  heard 
that  people  always  excel  most  in  those  things  which  they  are 
fondest  of;  if  so,  I  am  sure  that  my  forte  must  be  writing  to 
my  beloved  parents,  for  there  is  nothing  when  away  from 
them  that  affords  me  so  much  pleasure  as  receiving  and  an- 
swering their  dear  letters. 

Mrs.  Mitford  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Reading,  Nov.  14, 1802. 
The  concert  went  off  extremely  well,  and  the  house  quite 
full.  We  had  no  vacancy  in  either  of  our  boxes,  as  Mrs. 
Terry  (her  sister  not  coming  as  she  expected)  applied  to  me 
on  Thursday  morning,  and  I  was  happy  in  giving  her  the 
only  vacant  place.  For  fear  of  consequences,  I  durst  not  put 
Monck  and  her  in  the  same  box,  therefore  we  marshalled 
our  company  in  the  following  order :  In  the  front  row  of 
the  stage-box  Mrs.  Dolly,  your  aunt,  and  Mrs.  Terry ;  on  the 
back  seat  Mr.  Annersley,  Mr.  Robinson,  senior,  and  your 
father.  The  other  box  in  front  Mrs.  Nicholl,  Miss  Valpy, 
and  myself;  and  behind  us  Mr.  Monck,  Mr.  Southgate,  and 

*  A  pet  name  for  Mrs.  Mitford. 


6  Mrs.  Shaiv  Lefevre. 

Mr.  Matthew  Robinson  took  their  station.  The  party  drank 
tea  here,  and  Mr.  D.'s  coach  conveyed  the  female  part  of  it 
to  the  theatre  a  little  before  seven.  ]\Ir.  and  Mrs.  Lefevre 
were  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house,  so  that  we  had  no 
conversation  till  the  concert  was  finished,  when  Mr.  L.  came 
to  pay  his  compliments  to  me  and  my  friends,  and  old  dad 
went  round  to  chat  with  Mrs.  L.  When  the  house  was  suf- 
ficiently cleared  to  afford  me  an  easy  passage,  I  joined  her 
also,  and  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  that,  during  the 
time  we  were  waiting  for  their  coach  to  get  up,  Mr.  L.  had 
desired  your  friend  Monck  to  put  his  nightcap  in  his  pocket, 
and  accompany  them  and  us  back  to  Heckfield.  The  night 
was  dry,  though  cold,  and,  being  moonlight,  our  drive  was  a 
very  pleasant  one ;  and  we  reached  their  truly  hospitable 
mansion  before  twelve.  Sandwiches,  negus,  etc.,  were  imme- 
diately brought  in,  and  after  half  an  hour's  pleasant  chat,  we 
separated  for  the  night.  I  cannot  attempt  to  detail  what  an 
agreeable  day  we  had  on  Friday.  The  gentlemen  dedicated 
the  morning  to  field  sports ;  the  ladies  accompanied  me 
round  the  grounds,  and  afterwards  we  took  a  ride  round 
Lord  Rivers's  park  before  we  dressed  for  dinner,  when  there 
was  an  addition  to  our  numbers  of  a  Mr.  Milton,  his  wife,  and 
two  daughters;  the  youngest  of  whom,  Miss  Fanny  Milton,* 
is  a  very  lively,  pleasant  young  woman.  I  do  not  mean  to 
infer  that  Miss  Milton  may  not  be  equally  agreeable,  but  the 
other  took  a  far  greater  share  in  the  conversation,  and, 
playing  casino  great  part  of  the  evening  with  Mr.  S.  Lefevre, 
Mr.  Monck,  and  your  old  Mumpsa,  it  gave  me  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  her  in  a  more  favorable  light  than  her  sister. 

The  next  letter  was  written  during  Miss  Mitford's  visit  to 
the  north. 

Mrs.  Mitford  to  Mary  Russell  Mitford, 

Bertram  House,  Saturday  eveniug,  Sept.  27,  1806. 
It  appears  as  if  Providence  kindly  favored  the  wish  of 

*  The  Miss  Fanny  Milton  above  mentioned  afterwards  became  the 
celebrated  Mrs.  Trollope.  Her  father  was  Vicar  of  Heckfield,  near 
Reading,  three  miles  from  Swallowfield. 


Visit  to  Hexham.  7 

your  friends  to  give  you  an  agreeable  impression  of  North- 
umberland. The  weather  is  quite  heavenly.  You  smile  at 
local  attachments,  but  I  think  the  enthusiasm  of  your  char- 
acter will  kindle  into  affection  when  you  behold  the  spot 
that  gave  birth  to  a  parent  you  have  so  much  reason  to  love 
and  revere.*  Dooley  is  vastly  well,  but  is  suspected  of  hav- 
ing killed  one  of  the  Dutch  teal ;  either  himself  or  the  old 
cat  did  it.  The  most  suspicious  circumstance  against  the 
poor  baronet  is  that  he  was  caught  with  one  of  them  in  his 
mouth  some  days  before.  I  am  grieved  at  the  accident,  and 
shall  suffer  your  pet  to  be  as  little  in  the  garden  as  possible, 
and  keep  a  strict  eye  over  him.  He  is  certainly  much  more 
anxious  to  go  there  than  he  used  to  be. 

I  am  half  sorry  that  you  did  not  see  the  Marquis  of 
Exeter's  in  your  way  down.  So  lovely  a  place  would  have 
had  additional  charms  from  the  fineness  of  the  weather,  and 
it  may  be  tinged  with  November  gloom  when  you  return. 
Her  majesty  came  by  Three  Mile  Cross,  and  so  up  by  Dr. 
Jones's  and  the  church  at  Shinfield,  on  her  return  from  Sir 
William  Pitt's  to  Windsor  on  Wednesday ;  but  the  showers 
had  induced  her  to  substitute  their  coach  for  her  own  socia- 
ble, and  as  Lady  Pitt,  according  to  etiquette,  waited  on  the 
queen,  the  next  morning  she  went  in  the  royal  sociable,  and 
returned  in  her  own  carriage.  Our  worthy  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Perry 
dined  that  day  with  Mrs.  Brocas,  so  were  not  at  home  when 
her  majesty,  with  truly  royal  speed,  whirled  by  their  cottage, 
which  she  did  at  the  rate  of  twelve  miles  an  hour  at  least. 

I  went  past  them  between  Bernard  Body's  and  the 
Cross,  and  did  but  just  get  in  time  to  Heckfield  Place.  The 
two  ladies  received  me  in  great  spirits.  Mr.  Lefevre  got 
down  to  his  own  room  the  day  before,  and  Mrs.  S.  L.  had 
been  out  a  short  airing  with  him  in  the  carriage.  We  were 
soon  informed  dinner  was  upon  the  table,  and  Mr.  BuUey, 
senior,  joined  us  in  the  dining-room.  We  had  some  delight- 
ful eels  at  the  top,  soup  in  the  middle,  and  a  haunch  of 
Lord  Stowell's  venison  at  the  bottom,  a  boiled  chicken  on 

*  These  encomiums  are  very  creditable  to  Mrs.  Mitford,  and  probably 
had  great  influence  with  her  daughter. 


8  Hospitalities. 

my  side,  and  what  was  on  the  other  I  do  not  recollect. 
Some  venison  was  sent  in  to  Gog,*  but  he  thought  it  very 
bad,  and  sent  for  some  chicken.  We  had  after,  a  brace  of 
partridge  at  top,  a  very  fine  rabbit  at  the  bottom,  a  dish  of 
pease  in  the  middle,  tipsy-cake  on  one  side,  and  grape  tart 
on  the  other.  Except  some  pease,  I  dined  on  the  fish  and 
venison,  and  tasted  nothing  else.  Their  greenhouse  grapes, 
which  now  succeed  the  hot-house,  are  admirable,  and  we 
had  some  very  good  peaches,  a  pine,  pears,  and  walnuts. 
The  pine  not  being  tasted,  Mrs.  Lefevre  ordered  it  to  be  put 
in  my  carriage,  with  many  apologies  for  its  not  being  so 
large  as  she  could  have  wished.  As  Mr.  Bulley  was  en- 
gaged to  a  sandwich  party  at  Mrs.  H.  Marsh's,  Mrs.  Lefevre, 
as  soon  as  she  left  the  dining-room,  rang  to  order  the  ser- 
vants to  get  tea  and  coffee  by  seven,  as  she  thought  Mr. 
Bulley  would  wish  to  be  off  soon  after.  Magog,  who  had 
gone  to  visit  her  good  man,  returned  to  us  to  say  that  Mr. 
L.  hoped  I  would  excuse  his  deshabille,  and  begged  we  would 
take  tea  and  coffee  in  his  room  \  and  on  the  old  lady  ringing 
again  for  the  butler  to  tell  him  to  take  it  thither  at  the  hour 
she  had  ordered,  he  told  her  his  master  had  directed  him  to 
bring  it  in  immediately,  so  we  repaired  thither  without  delay. 
I  am  happy  to  say  our  good  friend  looks  better  than  I  ex- 
pected, and  was  in  excellent  spirits.  He,  as  well  as  the 
ladies,  begged  to  be  most  kindly  remembered  to  you  both. 

The  Mitfords  were  liberal  in  their  hospitalities  at  this 
time.  In  a  letter,  dated  March,  1806,  Mrs.  Mitford  writes  to 
her  husband :  "  Will  you  purchase  a  dozen  and  a  half  new 
doileys,  as  ours  are  getting  too  shabby  for  company.  I 
mention  eighteen,  as  when  a  party  amounts  to  fourteen  or 
fifteen,  which  ours  sometimes  do,  it  does  not  look  well  to  see 
them  of  two  different  sorts.  And,  if  you  conveniently  can, 
bring  six  pounds  of  wax  or  spermaceti  candles." 

The  following  lines,  written  by  Mrs.  Mitford  during  the 
absence  of  her  husband  and  daughter  in  the  north,  will  give 
some  idea  of  her  simple  and  affectionate  nature : 

♦  Mr.  Shaw  Lefevre. 


Lines  by  Mrs.  Mitford.  g 

Though  Mitford's  absence  causes  many  a  sigh, 

And  tears  unbidden  fill  his  consort's  eye, 

Detained  at  Kirkby  waiting  for  his  friend 

Till  dark  November's  gloomy  fogs  descend, 

Yet  has  that  month  to  me  superior  charms 

To  those  when  summer's  sun  our  bosom  warms, 

For  in  that  month  was  born  the  friend  most  dear, 

The  constant  partner  of  each  joy  and  care; 

And  faithful  memory,  with  grateful  lay, 

Shall  fondly  hail  her  husband's  natal  day. 

Some  little  votive  wreath  to  deck  her  strain 

Of  every  Muse  she  asks,  but  asks  in  vain. 

She  seeks  no  flowers  a  garland  to  prepare, 

They  bloom  not  when  stern  winter  chills  the  air ; 

Nor  needs  her  Mitford  ornaments  like  these. 

Secure  by  genuine  worth  all  hearts  to  please. 

But  unassisted  by  the  tuneful  Nine 

Can  she  attempt  his  virtues  to  define ; 

Depict  his  ardor  when,  at  friendship's  call. 

From  distant  lands  he  flew  to  yonder  hall.'' 

In  calm  domestic  scenes  his  worth  revere, 
See  the  kind  husband,  the  fond  parent  here ! 
May  each  revolving  year  behold  him  blessed 
With  peace,  best  inmate  of  the  human  breast ; 
The  cheerful  glow  of  health  his  cheeks  adorn, 
Whose  eyes  still  sparkle  like  the  brilliant  morn ; 
And  many  a  season  pass  unmarked  by  care 
In  social  intercourse  with  friends  most  dear. 
Oh,  may  his  darling  child,  his  soul's  delight. 
As  now  with  sweet  afiection  meet  his  sight ! 
And  should  some  virtuous  youth  obtain  the  fair, 
Making  her  happiness  his  constant  care, 
Will  not  her  father,  pleased  though  loth,  resign 
Parental  rights  at  wedlock's  sacred  shrine? 

Mrs.  Mitford  fo  Dr.  Mitford. 

Oct.  6, 1806. 
Much  has  been  said  in  the  public  prints  of  the  sum  ex- 
pended by  the  Mayor  and  Corporation  of  Liverpool  in  en- 
tertaining the  Prince.*  There  is  a  tale  in  circulation  here 
— whether  it  may  have  reached  Northumberland  I  know  not 
— that  his  royal  highness  asked  for  three  things  during 
dinner,  which  were  not  to  be  found  amidst  the  innumerable 

*  The  Prince  of  Wales. 


lO  Election. 

profusion  of  delicacies  which  were  provided  for  the  occasion. 
Of  the  various  kinds  of  fish  the  Prince  chose  salmon,  and 
called  for  some  salad  to  eat  with  it;  but,  to  the  great  dis- 
may of  the  mayor  and  aldermen,  salad  there  was  none! 
With  that  politeness  for  which  he  is  so  distinguished,  he  said 
it  was  of  no  consequence — a  little  cucumber  would  answer 
the  purpose  just  as  well ;  but  that  was  no  more  to  be  ob- 
tained than  the  other.  So,  after  graciously  receiving  the 
apologies  of  the  mortified  host,  he  called  for  a  stand  of 
cruets,  and  mixed  up  some  oil  and  vinegar  to  eat  with  his 
fish,  and  the  Body  Corporate  began  a  little  to  recover  from 
their  embarrassment,  when  unfortunately  he  asked  for  a 
glass  of  soda-water.  This  completed  the  climax  of  their  dis- 
tress. Had  I  learnt  to  make  embellishments  to  plain,  sim- 
ple matter  of  fact,  I  might  add  that  his  worship  the  mayor 
could  not  sleep  for  three  nights  in  consequence  of  his  vexa- 
tion, and  that  half  the  Court  of  Aldermen  fell  ill  from  the 
same  cause ;  but  my  story  ends  with  the  glass  of  soda-water, 
and  I  shall  dismiss  the  subject  with  remarking  that  no  gen- 
teel family  in  Liverpool  will  in  future  admit  salmon  at  their 
table  without  offering  salad  and  cucumber  to  their  guests  at 
the  same  time,  and  it  would  not  be  at  all  wonderful  if,  in- 
stead of  liqueurs,  they  should  hand  round  soda-water  at  the 
conclusion  of  their  great  dinners,  and  whoever  should  dare 
to  refuse  it  will  at  least  not  be  considered  as  a  Prince's  man. 

Mrs.  Mitford  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Tuesday,  Oct.  21,  1806. 
Your  letter  of  the  i6th,  my  beloved,  I  have  just  received, 
and,  encompassed  as  I  am  with  all  the  horrors  of  an  election 
before  my  eyes,  it  is  the  greatest  cordial  that  can  be.  Noth- 
ing can  exceed  the  madness  of  the  people  in  Reading  for 
your  father's  return.  I  own  I  hope  his  squire  will  keep  him 
where  he  is  till  he  bring  you  both  back:  to  have  you  and 
your  dear  "  ittey  "  obliged  to  return  with  election  speed  such 
an  immense  journey  when  probably  everything  will  be 
settled  before  you  could  arrive,  is  what  by  no  means  I 
can  reconcile  myself  to.  Impatient  as  I  am  to  embrace 
you  both,  I  should  apprehend  a  thousand  ill  consequences 


Louis  XVIII.  ir 

from   the  fatigue  of  so   long  a  journey  taken   in  such  a 

manner, 

***** 

John,  Simeon,  Edward,  and  Dick  are  canvassing  in  all 
directions,  and  the  bells  are  ringing  most  merrily ;  the  peo- 
ple, men,  women,  and  children,  were  standing  about  in  all 
directions,  and  never  were  two  poor  souls  so  stared  at  as 
Victoire  and  myself  as  we  drove  through  the  town.  I 
think,  from  the  earnestness  of  their  gazing  at  us,  they  ex- 
pected to  see  your  father  pop  his  head  out  of  the  chaise,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  bow  on  all  sides  to  return  the  salutations  of 
the  multitude,  though  convinced  no  particular  respect  was 
intended  me,  as  I  could  see  a  look  of  disappointment  in 
some  of  their  faces  at  seeing  only  two  females  in  the"  car- 
riage. Chamberlayn  was  assailed  by  inquiries  when  his 
master  would  be  back.  He  stated  the  immense  distance, 
and  said  his  return  was  very  uncertain,  but  they  were  all 
sure  he  would  be  back  as  soon  as  the  news  reached  him. 

Right  Hon.  Lord  Charles  Aynsley's, 

Little  Harle  Tower,  Northumberland. 

Dr.  Mitford  returned  from  Northumberland  at  full  speed 
for  this  election,  and  Miss  Mitford  piteously  complains  of 
being  left  to  travel  back  alone. 

Mrs.  Mitford  to  Dr.  Mitford,  Richardson^ s  Hotel,  London. 
Wednesday,  4  o'clock.  Feb.  26,  1808. 
I  was  doubtful,  my  dear  Mitford,  whether  to  write  to  you 
to-day  or  wait  till  we  heard  from  you,  which  I  hope  and  trust 
we  shall  to-morrow  morning ;  but,  receiving  a  letter  from 
Bocking,  the  post  determined  me.  Her  ladyship*  has  been 
in  a  very  grand  bustle,  as  the  King  of  France,  Monsieur  the 
Duke  d'Angouleme,  Duke  de  Berry,  Duke  de  Grammont, 
and  the  Prince  de  Conde,  with  all  the  nobles  that  composed 
his  majesty's  suite  at  Gosfield,  dined  at  the  deanery  last 
Thursday.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pepper  (Lady  Fitzgerald's  daugh- 
ter) were  asked  to  meet  him,  because  she  was  brought  up 
and  educated  at  the  French  court  in  Louis  XVI. 's  reign. 

*  Lady  Charles  Aynsley,  Miss  Mitford's  cousin. 


12  Banquet. 

General  and  Mrs.  Milner  for  the  same  reason,  and  Colonel, 
Mrs.,  and  Miss  Burgoyne — all  the  party  quick  at  languages. 
The  storm  alarmed  Lady  C.  not  a  little ;  it  prevented  the 
carrier  going  to  town,  in  the  first  instance,  and,  in  the  sec- 
ond, she  began  to  fear  the  king  might  not  be  able  to  come, 
after  all  the  preparations  made  for  him.  The  Milners  were 
so  anxious  about  it  that  the  General,  who  commands  at  Col- 
chester, ordered  five  hundred  pioneers  to  clear  the  road 
from  that  city  to  Booking.  On  his  majesty's  approach  the 
Bocking  bell  proclaimed  it,  and,  on  driving  up,  the  full  mil- 
itary band  which  Lord  C.  had  engaged  for  the  occasion 
struck  up  "God  Save  the  King"  in  the  entrance-passage. 
In  his  majesty's  coach  were  Monsieur  and  the  Dukes  d'An- 
gouleme  and  Berry.  All  stood  till  dinner  was  announced, 
when  our  cousin  handed  his  majesty — Lord  C.  walking  be- 
fore him  with  a  candle.  The  king  sat  at  the  top  of  the  table, 
with  Lady  C.  on  his  right  and  Lord  C.  on  his  left.  Mrs. 
Milner's  and  Mrs.  Pepper's  French  butlers  were  lent  for  the 
occasion.  The  bill  of  fare  was  in  French  top  and  bottom, 
and  the  king  appeared  well  pleased  with  his  entertainment. 
They  were  all  dressed  in  stars,  and  the  insignia  of  different 
orders.  They  were  three  hours  at  dinner,  and  at  eight  the 
dessert  was  placed  on  the  table — claret,  and  all  kinds  of 
French  wine,  fruit,  etc.,  a  beautiful  cake  at  the  top,  with 
'■'•Vive  le  Roi  de  France^'  baked  round  it,  and  the  quarterings 
of  the  French  army  in  colored  pastry,  which  had  a  novel 
and  pretty  effect.  The  three  youngest  children  then  en- 
tered with  white  satin  military  sashes  over  their  shoulders, 
painted  in  bronze  "  Vive  le  Roi  de  France — Prosperite  a  Louis 
dixhuit."  Charles,  on  being  asked  for  a  toast,  immediately 
gave  "The  King  of  France,"  which  was  drunk  with  the  ut- 
most sensibility  by  all  present,  and  one  of  the  little  girls 
came  up  to  his  majesty,  and,  with  great  expression,  spoke 
ten  lines  in  French  composed  for  the  occasion.  Louis  soon 
followed  the  ladies  into  the  drawing-room,  when  again  all 
stood,  and  Lady  C.  served  her  royal  guest  with  coffee,  which 
being  over,  she  told  him  that  some  of  the  neighboring  fami- 
lies were  come  for  a  little  dance  in  the  dining-room,  and 
that  perhaps  his  majesty  would  be  seated  to  cards.     He 


Literary  Work.  13 

good-humoredly  said  that  he  would  first  go  and  pay  his  re- 
spects to  the  company  in  the  next  room,  which  was  the 
thing  she  wished ;  therefore  handed  him  in,  his  family  and 
nobles  following,  which  was  a  fine  sight  for  those  assem- 
bled, in  all  sixty-two.  At  the  king's  desire,  she  introduced 
each  person  to  him  by  name,  and,  on  the  king  sitting  down, 
the  band  struck  up,  and  Monsieur,  who  is  supposed  to  be 
the  finest  dancer  in  Europe,  led  off  with  Lady  C,  who,  spite 
of  Lord  Charles's  horror  and  her  own  fears  for  her  lame 
ankle,  hopped  down  two  country-dances  with  him,  and  they 
were  followed  by  Charlotte  and  the  Duke  d'Angouleme.  I 
have  hurried  over  this  account  from  her  ladyship's  letter, 
and  the  Chelmsford  paper,  which,  having  been  interrupted 
while  writing,  she  sent  at  the  same  time. 

Mrs.  Mitford  to  Dr.  Mitford,  Hudson's  Hotels  London. 

Feb.  17,  1809. 

I  would  not  omit  writing,  my  dearest  husband,  though 
in  our  still-life  way  nothing  has  occurred  since  I  wrote  to 
you  yesterday.  You  would  have  supposed  Bertram  House 
was  turned  into  the  Hall  of  Criticism  had  you  seen  the 
number  of  books  with  which  the  dining-room  has  been  be- 
spread all  the  morning ;  in  the  first  place,  the  Bible  and 
Mrs.  Trimmer's  Sacred  History,  next  Johnson's  folio  dic- 
tionary, Guthrie  and  Adams's  Geographical  Grammars,  etc., 
etc.  When  I  tell  you  our  treasure  transcribed  the  whole 
canto  in  the  course  of  yesterday,  though  you  knew  she  pos- 
sessed the  pen  of  a  ready  writer,  you  will  allow  she  has  out- 
done her  usual  outdoings.  The  notes  she  has  left  to  poor 
Pill  Garlick  to  transcribe,  and  I  have  not  yet  entered  on 
my  task,  though  I  have  been  scolded  divers  times  this 
blessed  morning  for  not  setting  to  it.  Pity  me,  for  I  must 
grub  away  all  the  evening  to  get  it  accomplished.  We  have 
read  it  over  three  several  times,  and  at  each  reading  dis- 
covered new  beauties.  The  only  fault  to  me  perhaps  origi- 
nates more  in  my  family  pride  than  that  any  other  person 
might  consider  it  as  a  defect,  but  I  feel  rather  grieved  that 
my  illustrious  relation.  Lord  William  Russell,  is,  as  it  were, 
smuggled  in  between  the  old  Grecians,  when  he  might  have 


14  Dr.  Mitford. 

been  so  conspicuous  a  figure  on  the  canvas,  and  would  have 
afforded,  through  the  medium  of  his  friends,  Monmouth  and 
Cavendish,  an  undeniable  proof  that  friendship  glowed  with 
as  bright  an  ardor  in  British  hearts  at  that  period  as  in  any 
of  the  most  renowned  ages  of  antiquity.  I  the  rather  won- 
der that  our  fair  friend  let  slip  so  good  an  opportunity  for  a 
tribute  of  just  praise  to  the  ancestor  of  the  Devonshire  family. 

Mr.  Home,  in  his  edition  of  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning's  let- 
ters, tells  us  that  Miss  Mitford's  father  was  "a  jovial,  stick- 
at-nothing,  fox-hunting  squire  of  the  three-bottle  class  " — a 
tolerably  correct  description,  if  we  substitute  "  coursing  "  for 
"fox-hunting"  and  "doctor"  for  "squire."  His  daughter  says 
he  was  the  "handsomest  and  cheerfulest"  of  men,  and  it  ap- 
pears from  incidental  notices  that  he  had  a  keen  relish  for 
fine  wine,  and  that  indulgence  in  it  did  not  invariably  make 
him  the  better.  Miss  Mitford,  no  doubt,  owed  to  him  much 
of  her  natural  buoyancy  of  spirit  and  some  of  her  predilec- 
tion for  country  pursuits  and  for  the  canine  race,  of  which 
greyhounds  were  his  favorites.  Children  and  dogs  loved 
him,  and  so  did  others  who  did  not  understand  him,  or  re- 
fused to  see  his  faults.  Women  have  generally  represented 
Dr.  Mitford  as  amiable  and  pleasant ;  there  was  something 
cheering  and  hearty  in  his  familiarity.  The  character  is 
not  uncommon  ;  he  was  one  of  those  good-looking,  profligate 
spendthrifts  who,  reckless  of  consequences,  bring  misery 
upon  their  families  and  remain  dear  to  their  mothers  and 
daughters.  "We  often  like  the  foolish  better  than  the  wise," 
writes  Miss  Mitford,  thinking  perchance  of  her  own  fireside. 
The  man  of  pleasure  is  generally  acceptable  at  the  moment, 
and,  although  he  may  be  thoughtless  and  unjust,  he  is  sel- 
dom calculating  or  severe.  Dr.  Mitford  often  did  kind 
actions,  which  it  is  unfair  to  ignore ;  he  seems  even  to  have 
had  some  sort  of  generosity,  and  the  ease  with  which  he 
parted  with  his  money  was  one  of  his  most  unfortunate 
weaknesses.  But  Miss  Mitford's  appreciation  of  her  father 
was  mostly  due  to  filial  devotion.  Never  was  affection 
more  severely  tried.  She  had  to  see  thousands,  seventy 
thousand  pounds,  passing  out  of  his  careless  hands  until  he 


Dr.  Mitford.  1 5 

became  dependent  upon  the  small  pittance  she  could  earn 
by  arduous  literary  labor. 

While  Mrs.  Mitford  was  making  up  little  parties  at  Read- 
ing, the  doctor  was  indulging  his  social  proclivities  in  a 
wider  field.  Except  to  attend  a  coursing  match,  he  seldom 
cared  to  visit  the  country,*  but  lived  a  reckless  bachelor  life 
in  London,  scattering  his  money  among  gamblers  f  and 
"good  fellows,"  and  associating  with  Whig  politicians.  Even 
his  connection  with  M.  St.  Quintin  %  proved  disastrous. 
That  gentleman,  though  not  very  proficient  in  his  scholastic 
duties,  was  astute  in  financial  affairs.  He  induced  the  doc- 
tor to  enter  into  partnership  with  him  in  the  coal  trade,  and 
furnished  accounts  of  the  business  which  would  have  de- 
ceived a  much  more  cautious  and  scrutinizing  man.  Large 
profits  were  apparently  being  realized  until  the  doctor  re- 
fused to  advance  more  capital,  and  then  the  whole  specula- 
tion collapsed  and  no  assets  were  forthcoming. 

*  Mrs.  Mitford,  May  12,  1806 — 

"Your  teal  are  all  hearty  and  alive,  and  wash  themselves  twenty  times 
a  day  at  least ;  I  visit  them  constantly  to  see  that  they  are  all  there. 
The  laburnums  and  lilacs  are  stealing  into  bloom  very  fast,  the  weeping 
and  double-flowering  cherries  fully  out ;  everything  is  looking  very  beau- 
tiful, and  one  of  the  espalier  apple-trees  in  the  garden  is  a  perfect  pict- 
ure, the  blossoms  are  so  large  and  handsome ;  but  I  fear  it  will  have 
lost  all  its  charms  before  I  have  the  happiness  of  showing  it  to  you." 
And  in  1806  she  writes  :  "  Let  not  our  darling,  my  dear,  generous  hus- 
band, betray  you  into  an  excessive  purchase  on  my  account.  You  can 
bring  no  present  half  so  valuable  to  me  as  yourself,  were  you  to  buy  all 
the  rich  things  the  treasures  of  a  nabob  could  command."  In  another 
letter  in  1808,  in  which  she  says  that  she  is  glad  he  went  to  Gosfield  and 
had  an  interview  with  the  French  monarch,  she  adds,  "  We  walked  to 
darling's  [Miss  Mitford's]  favorite  hill  last  night.  The  nightingales 
were  singing  most  beautifully,  and  the  face  of  the  country  was  altogether 
lovely.  How  we  wished  you  had  been  a  partaker  of  our  walk !  I  fear 
the  lilacs  will  be  rather  going  off  before  you  see  them ;  they  have  been 
very  handsome ;  the  guelder  roses  are  coming  on  very  fast,  and  the 
laburnums  are  in  the  very  height  of  their  bloom." 

t  Miss  Mitford  says  that  he  was  considered  one  of  the  best  six  players 
in  London  at  piquet  and  whist,  at  which  he  lost  large  sums  in  St.  James's 
Street. 

\  A  French  refugee.  He  had  been  secretary  to  the  Comte  de  Mous- 
tiers,  one  of  the  last  ambassadors  of  Louis  XVL  to  the  Court  of  St. 
James. 


l6  M.  Si.  Qumtin. 

Not  content  with  involving  the  doctor  in  these  difficulties, 
St.  Quintin  introduced  him  to  the  Marquis  de  Chabannes, 
one  of  the  Legitimist  refugees  of  the  old  regime,  who  visited 
at  Hans  Place,  and  of  whom,  with  their  powder  and  puff, 
high  heels,  and  fine  manners.  Miss  Mitford  gives  such  an  ex- 
quisite description,  Chabannes  was  descended  from  an  an- 
cient and  illustrious  family  in  France,  had  fought  under  the 
great  Conde,  been  decorated  with  the  Order  of  St.  Louis,  and 
now  in  exile  his  active  mind  had  turned  from  campaigning 
to  speculation.  His  plans  and  projects  were  curious  and 
plausible,  ingenious  in  conception,  and  unfortunate  in  result. 
He  had  an  improved  method  for  lighting  London ;  but  the 
most  remarkable  enterprise  he  engaged  in  was  that  of  sub- 
stituting in  France  our  small  and  fast  stage-coaches  for  the 
cheap  and  commodious  diligences. 

Dr.  Mitford's  financial  connections  with  St.  Quintin  and 
Chabannes  seemed  to  have  commenced  as  early  as  1805, 
and  not  to  have  terminated  in  1820.  The  following  corre- 
spondence is  somewhat  interesting  and  characteristic,  show- 
ing the  nature  of  these  transactions,  the  artifice  of  St.  Quin- 
tin, and  the  confidence  of  the  doctor,  not  entirely  destroyed 
even  at  the  last : 

M.  St.  Quintin  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Paris,  April  10, 1820. 

My  very  dear  Friend, — I  deferred  a  few  days  answer- 
ing your  last  letter  in  order  to  write  to  you  by  the  opportu- 
nity of  our  friend  Mr.  Monck,  who  leaves  Paris  sooner  than 
he  expected,  owing  to  the  meeting  of  Parliament.  It  is  im- 
possible to  recall  to  my  recollection  the  various  money  trans- 
actions that  have  taken  place  between  us,  excepting  in  two 
instances,  the  first  when  you  were  in  durance  vile,  and  I  got 
you  some  money  on  your  paintings  to  get  you  out  immedi- 
ately, and  the  second  when  I  got  ;^5o  for  you  under  my  own 
guarantee.  I  know  I  went  several  times  to  ask  money  for 
5'ou,  and  was  sent  by  you  when  you  did  not  like  to  call  your- 
self, but  I  know  likewise  that  most  of  my  applications  were 
vain.  .  .  .  You  remember,  of  course,  that  I  paid  to  Messrs. 
Robins  £626  t,s.  out  of  the  ;^2488  I  received  from  your 
brother  for  your  account.     What  was  that  sum  for? 


Speculations.  ly 

Chabannes's  fate  does  not  at  all  astonish  me.  His  whole 
life  has  been  a  long  series  of  imposition ;  by  his  alluring 
prospects  held  out  of  great  profits  he  has  taken  in  the  long- 
est heads  and  deepest  calculators.  I  can  only  deplore  and 
regret  that  he  has  so  shamefully  succeeded  with  me,  who 
have  neither  a  long  head  nor  deep  foresight.  I  do  not  so 
much  regret  it  on  account  of  the  ;^8oo  I  lose  by  him  as  on 
account  of  the  much  heavier  sum  you  lose.  I  have  had  a 
very  long  conversation  with  your  friend,  Mr.  Monck ;  we  are 
both  of  opinion  that  you  could  live  even  in  Paris  at  half  the 
expense  you  must  necessarily  incur  even  at  Reading  in  old 
Bulley's  house,  which  I  understand  you  are  going  to  take. 
Of  course,  I  am  rather  partial  to  your  coming  here  with  your 
family,  and  as  such  I  am  not  so  impartial  a  judge,  but  Mr. 
Monck  will  tell  you  that  the  Deans  managed  to  live  here 
very  respectably  with  ;^2oo  per  annum.  Living  anyhow  is 
better  than  being  pestered  with  calls  from  creditors.  Poor 
Mrs.  Q.  says  she  is  in  heaven  since  she  hears*  no  more  the 
single  knocks  at  the  door.  You  have  here  all  the  English 
books  and  newspapers  that  you  would*  have  in  a  public  li- 
brary at  Bath  or  Cheltenham,  and  need  not  lose*  a  word  of 
print  if  you  do  not  like  it.  Give  our  best  regards  to  Mrs.  M. 
and  our  love  to  dear  Miss  Mitford,  and  believe  me  most  sin- 
cerely yours,  De  St.  Quintin. 

M.  St.  Quintin  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Paris,  May  l6,  1820. 
My  very  dear  Friend, — I  did  not  answer  sooner  your 
letter  of  the  13th  of  April  last,  because  I  was  in  daily  expec- 
tation to  hear  from  you  in  answer  to  the  letter  I  gave  to  Mr. 
Monck  for  you,  the  contents  of  which  I  read  and  explained 
to  him.  As  this  has  not  been  the  case,  and  I  have  not  heard 
a  syllable  from  you,  it  behooves  me  to  give  you  the  informa- 
tion you  require.  I  can  make  many  allowances  for  your 
feelings  and  for  the  pressure  of  circumstance  that  weigh  you 
down.  Nobody  feels  more  and  sympathizes  more  with  you 
than  I  do.     Yet  there  are  limits  to  everything.     And  since 

*  These  words  are  put  in  ;  the  original  is  torn. 


1 8  Recrimiyiations. 

your  mind  is  impressed  with  feelings  on  my  account  that  you 
cannot  either  reconcile  with  friendship  or  integrity,  since  you 
believe  Monsieur  de  Chabannes,  who  never  spoke  a  word  of 
truth  in  his  life,  in  preference  to  me,  it  is  high  time  that 
something  conclusive  and  definitive  should  be  done  in  this 
unpleasant  affair,  for  too  long  have  I  been  represented  to 
your  family  as  the  cause  of  your  ruin,  and  out  of  mere  friend- 
ship to  you  have  I  suffered  this  impression  to  remain  on  the 
minds  of  Mrs.  and  Miss  Mitford,  whose  good  opinions  I  al- 
ways valued,  and  still  value  very  highly.  It  is,  therefore, 
with  much  pleasure  I  shall  see  your  friend,  to  whom  I  shall 
be  happy  to  give  every  information  and  every  explanation 
in  my  power.  In  the  meanwhile  I  send  you  the  name  of 
our  adversary  and  the  names  of  the  attorneys,  as  you  re- 
quire it. 

With  best  regards  to  the  ladies,  believe  me,  in  spite  of 
everything,  most  truly  yours,  De  St.  Quintin. 

Dr.  Mitford  to  M.  St.  Quintin. 

Shinfield,  near  Reading,  June  12,  1820. 

Dear  Sir, — I  have  received  both  your  letters :  the  first 
by  my  friend  Monck — in  answer  to  which  I  deny  you  have 
any  claim  against  the  estate  of  the  Marquis  de  Chabannes, 
for  I  paid  the  ;^3oo  which  you  say  you  paid.  Perhaps  it 
may  have  escaped  your  memory  that  you  wrote  me  from 
Paris  a  strange  letter  respecting  this  very  money.  I  have 
not,  however,  forgotten  it.  You  had  not  the  means  of  raising 
that  sum  at  that  time. 

I  can  likewise  prove  that  you  won  upwards  of  ;^2ooo  of 
General  Hompesch,  when  you  wrote  me  you  had  not ;  in 
consequence  of  which  you  had  from  me  upwards  of  ;^ioo, 
according  to  the  agreement  you  forced  upon  me.  If  you 
had  been  paid  by  General  Hompesch  I  was  entitled  to  ;^3oo 
— this  you  know.  You  engaged  to  pay  the  difference  of  my 
loss  with  Madame  Eonbleon,  and  I  paid  both  principal,  and, 
I  fear,  more  interest  than  was  due  to  her,  with  Mr.  Corbett's 
bills ;  and  you  know  I  am  entitled  to  be  paid  my  loss  and 
expenses  respecting  the  money  you  jDaid  Mr.  Corbett,  which 
ought  to  have  been  paid  to  Mr.  Auberj'.     The  loss  I  sus- 


Money  Transactions.  19 

lained  by  your  not  paying  this  properly  amounts  to  upwards 
of  £60,  and  with  the  deposit,  which  you  had  for  my  brother, 
makes  a  very  considerable  sum. 

Now  I  come  to  a  very  extraordinary  business.  In  the 
account  of  Messrs.  Robins  I  find  several  hundred  pounds 
said  to  be  paid  to  you ;  this,  of  course,  requires  your  see- 
ing the  statement,  I  have  no  knowledge  of  many  of  the 
sums. 

I  have  written  this  in  perfect  temper,  and  am  ready  for 
any  explanation  :  but  this  must  take  place.  It  is  a  very  re- 
markable circumstance  that  you  admitted  before  the  marquis 
and  myself  that  there  was  property  to  the  amount  of  ^1400 
in  dispute:  you  afterwards  stated  it  at  ;i^i2oo,  and  in  your 
last  letter  you  make  it  ;^iooo.     How  can  this  be  ? 

With  kind  regards  to  Mrs.  St.  Quintin— dear  Mrs.  St.Quin- 
tin,  I  remain  yours,  G.  Mitford. 

P.S. — I  have  not  to  a  human  being  stated  the  contents  of 
this  letter.     I  will  leave  the  whole  to  Monck. 

M.  St.  Quintin  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Paris,  July  21,  1820. 
My  dear  Doctor, — When  I  received  your  letter  of  June 
12th,  I  was  very  ill  in  bed  with  an  inflammatory  fever  of  a 
dangerous  nature,  which  was  succeeded  by  a  severe  fit  of  the 
gout,  from  which  I  am  not  yet  free.  Its  perusal  gave  me  a 
most  painful  sensation,  and,  therefore,  I  perused  it  but  once ; 
nor  did  I  consider  it  as  requiring  an  answer  farther  than 
obeying  your  injunctions  of  not  making  any  compromise 
with  the  person  who  disputes  us  the  ;^iooo.  This  I  have 
done,  though  much  against  my  will.  The  law  must,  there- 
fore, take  its  course,  and  most  likely  it  will  be  a  very  long, 
and,  for  a  certainty,  a  very  expensive,  course.  If  I  have 
stated  to  you  that  there  were  ^1500,  not  in  the  French 
funds,  but  in  security,  it  was  because  Chabannes  told  me  so ; 
but  I  told  you  since  this  sum  is  reduced  to  24,000  francs, 
which  remained  on  the  purchase  of  Madame  de  Chabannes's 
house  in  the  hands  of  the  purchaser  to  pay  an  annuity  of 
1200  francs  to  an  old  priest,  the  old  woman's  confessor — by 


20  Mo7iey  Transactions. 

Chabannes  I  understood  at  one  time  that  there  were  two  old 
maids.  This  priest  has  now  been  dead  one  or  two  years 
ago,  and  I  have  attached  the  money  in  the  hands  of  the  pur- 
chaser, who,  of  course,  will  not  pay  it  until  the  law  will  have 
decided  to  whom  it  is  to  be  paid.  The  letter  which  Mr. 
Monck  has  delivered  to  you  fully  explains  how  the  law  stands 
in  this  respect,  and  what  is  for  or  against  you.  How  this 
difference  can  leave  on  your  mind  very  unpleasant  conjectures 
attended  with  feelings  most  acute,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive, 
unless  you  suppose  that  I  reduced  the  ;^i5oo  to  ;^iooo,  and 
put  the  rest  into  my  pocket.  But  there  are  public  law  docu- 
ments to  prove  the  whole,  which  must  convince  the  most  in- 
credulous. You  have,  you  say,  several  hundred  letters  of 
mine  :  I  am  very  glad  of  it ;  I  am  sure  they  contain  nothing 
but  the  truth,  or,  at  least,  what  at  that  time  from  the  repre- 
sentations of  Chabannes  appeared  to  be  the  truth,  I  have 
kept  but  a  very  few  letters  of  yours ;  but  among  them  I  find 
the  copies  of  three  important  ones  I  wrote  to  you,  to  which 
I  refer  you  as  an  answer  to  the  other  parts  of  your  two  last 
letters.  One  of  them  I  wrote  to  you  December  28, 1805,  the 
second,  September  23,  1807,  and  the  third,  November  16, 
with  no  year  affixed  to  it,  but  from  its  contents  I  suppose 
was  written  in  1808  or  1809.  If  you  have  not  those  letters, 
let  me  know,  and  I  shall  send  you  copies  of  them.  At  pres- 
ent I  am  too  much  pressed  by  the  post,  and  I  will  not  defer 
any  longer  my  answer. 

From  these  letters  and  the  accounts  in  my  hands  it  fol- 
lows that  you  have  embarked  in  that  unfortunate  concern 
;;{^28oo,  and  I  ;^7oo — in  the  whole  ;;^35oo ;  you  say  now  that 
I  had  not  then  as  many  pence.  This  may  be  true ;  but  I 
had  above  ;^7ooo  of  Mr.  Slaney's  money,  and  as  you  would 
not  advance  another  shilling  on  Chabannes's  account,  and  I 
had  given  my  acceptances,  I  was  obliged  to  pay  them,  and 
to  reimburse  Mr,  Slaney  I  was  obliged  to  return  him  the 
bond  he  had  given  me  for  an  annuity  of  ;^ioo  settled  on  my 
life  and  Mrs.  St.  Quintin's.  This  capital,  with  profit  and  in- 
terest, has  produced  the  large  sum  Chabannes  owes  us.  Let 
me  see  now  how  much  you  have  received  on  account  of  this 
sum : 


Money  Trafisactious.  21 

First  money  received  from  France » ^90 

From  General  Hompesch  on  account  of  Chabannes 1360 

From  Taylor's  money  on  account  of  Ravelli 192 

;^l842* 

So  that  within  ;^iooo  you  have ' received  back  your  capital 
exclusive  of  profit  and  interest.  Besides,  you  have  received 
for  several  years  ;^5o  per  annum  for  his  bond  of  ;^iooo. 
After  this  statement,  which  is  pretty  correct,  what  becomes 
of  the  belief  that  is  entertained  against  me  that  I  have  ruined 
you  by  this  unfortunate  speculation :  nobody  can  be  more 
sorry  than  I  am  that  I  should  have  induced  you  to  make  it. 
I  myself  have  been  prevailed  upon  since  to  make  two  specu- 
lations, which  have  cost  me  nearly  ;^io,ooo,  and,  thank  God, 
every  farthing  is  paid ;  but  I  do  not  lay  the  blame  on  those 
who  induced  me  to  make  them.  .  .  . 

With  best  regards  to  Mrs.  and  Miss  Mitford, 

Believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  most  truly  yours, 

De  St.  Quintin. 

In  a  final  letter  St.  Quintin  assures  the  doctor  that  he  will 
do  his  best  to  obtain  repayment  from  Chabannes  "  by  threats 
and  persuasion,  and  by  secret  influence  over  his  d — d  heart" 

*  A  remarkable  calculation  for  a  schoolmaster. 


22  Political  Friends  of  Dr.  Mitford. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Political  Friends  of  Dr.  Mitford.  —  Letters  from  Mr.  Shaw 
Lefevre. — Poem  by  Miss  Mitford. — Leiter  from  S.  J.  Prati". 
— Letters  from  Cobbett. 

The  only  advantage  which  seems  ever  to  have  accrued  to 
Dr.  Mitford  from  his  extravagance  and  political  activity  was 
that  of  introducing  him,  and  consequently  his  daughter,  to 
some  of  the  leading  politicians  of  the  day.  In  this  manner 
they  became  acquainted  with  Shaw  Lefevre,  who  lived  near 
them  at  Heckfield,  and  represented  the  borough  of  Reading. 
Miss  Mitford  appears  to  have  known  little  of  this  gentleman 
before  her  leaving  school,  but  sufficient,  nevertheless,  to  have 
hoped  that  he  would  preside  at  the  race  ball,  where,  on  first 
coming  out,  she  would  have  to  dance  with  the  steward.  The 
doctor,  who  was  fond — not  always  wisely,  as  I  have  heard — 
of  showing  off  his  daughter's  powers  of  writing  and  recita- 
tion, sent  Mr.  Lefevre  from  time  to  time  specimens  of  her 
poetry,  to  which  there  is  some  allusion  in  the  following  let- 
ters: 

C.  Shaw  Lefevre,  M.P.,  to  Dr.  Mitford, 

Spring  Gardens,  June  i8,  1805. 

My  dear  Friend, — Report,  I  am  aware,  is  always  busy, 
and  has  probably  by  this  time  conveyed  to  Bertram  House 
a  full,  true,  and  particular  account  of  my  indisposition,  with 
all  its  etceteras.  Certain  it  is  that  I  have  had  the  gout  for 
these  ten  days  past,  and  that  I  was  during  a  week  of  that 
time  confined  to  my  bed  at  Heckfield.  In  short,  I  was  in  a 
sad  state  during  the  whole  of  our  stay  there,  and  what  added 
to  my  mortification  was  the  impossibility  of  adding  to  the 
majority  against  Lord  Melville.  I  do  most  cordially  con- 
gratulate you  on  the  event  of  these  proceedings,  highly  honor- 
able to  the  Opposition,  and  also  to  Lord  Sidmouth's  friends. 
The  law  will  now  take  its  course,  and  I  am  confident  that 


Shaw  Lefevre.  23 

justice  will  be  tempered  with  mercy  when  the  noble  peer  is 
brought  up  for  judgment  in  the  Court  of  King's  Bench.  You 
see,  I  have  already  concluded  that  he  will  be  convicted ;  his 
own  confession  is  enough  against  him.  I  am  told  he  made 
his  case  much  worse  by  his  defence. 

As  to  your  noble  friend,  the  D of  A ,  I  hear  most 

serious  arguments  against  his  claim ;  but  he  has  so  many 
votes  with  him  that  I  suppose  he  will  succeed.  The  canvass 
in  his  favor  is  irresistible.  He  has  all  the  ladies  of  fashion 
in  town  on  his  side,  and  they  leave  nothing  unturned  upon 
this  occasion. 

We  have  little  prospect  of  getting  to  Heckfield  for  these 
next  six  weeks,  and  then  only  with  room  for  half  our  family  ; 
we  shall,  however,  have  the  use  of  the  kitchen,  and  hope  you 
and  the  ladies  will  participate  with  us  in  beans  and  bacon. 
As  to  ragouts,  etc.,  they  must  be  postponed  till  we  entirely 
open  house  again.  Give  our  kindest  regards,  and  tell  Miss 
M.  that  I  hope  she  is  not  idle  at  this  sweet  season  for  poesy. 
The  muses  are  never  more  propitious  than  in  spring.  If  you 
come  to  town,  let  me  know  beforehand. 

Yours  most  sincerely,  C.  Shaw  Lefevre. 

C.  Shaw  Lefevre  to  George  Mitford,  Esq.,  Bertram  House. 

House  of  Commons,  July  2,  1806. 

My  dear  Friend, — I  forwarded  your  letter  to  Mr.  Ogle 
yesterday,  and  will  execute  any  other  commission  for  you  in 
return  for  the  exquisite  lines  you  enclosed  on  Mrs.  Mitford's 
birthday.  Mrs.  L.  and  my  wife  are  delighted  with  them,  and 
I  really  think  they  surpass  all  Miss  M.'s  former  produc- 
tions. 

I  hope  very  soon  to  thank  her  in  person  for  them ;  at 
present  I  have  work  enough  here  till  our  assizes,  though 
some  holidays  ought  to  intervene.  In  the  city  everything 
to-day  is  peace.  Mr.  Fox  is  certainly  better,  but  his  case 
is  said  to  be  alarming.     Excuse  haste. 

Yours  most  sincerely,  C.  Shaw  Lefevre. 

The  poem  referred  to  in  the  above  letter  was  the  fol- 
lowing: : 


24  Poem  by  Mifs  Mitford. 

To  MY  DEAREST  MaMMA  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

Hail,  lovely  June  !  thy  genial  suns 

With  plenty  crown  the  smiling  land, 
The  rip'ning  fruits  their  treasures  yield. 

The  beauteous  blossoms  wide  expand. 

Fair  are  the  flow'rets  Maia  boasts, 
"  The  primrose  pale,  the  violet  blue," 

But  none  can  match  thy  lovely  rose 
Bright  sparkling  with  the  morning  dew. 

Yet  not  thy  brilliant  rose,  sweet  June, 

Thy  lily  fair,  thy  cistus  gay, 
Would  ever  deck  my  humble  song, 

Or  ever  tempt  my  native  lay. 

But  my  lov'd  mother's  natal  day. 
This  dear,  this  blooming  month  has  blest, 

And  all  its  soft,  its  genial  pow'rs 
Are  centred  in  her  glowing  breast. 

Vain  were  the  task  her  mind  to  paint. 

Her  modest,  timid  genius  tell ; 
Vain  were  the  task  to  paint  that  heart, 

Where  the  sweet  female  virtues  dwell. 

Yet  grant,  ye  heavenly  powers,  my  prayer ! 

May  bliss  in  that  dear  heart  still  live, 
And  may  she  in  December's  gloom 

Taste  ev'ry  pleasure  June  can  give  ! 

M.  R.  M. 

The  following  letter  is  from  a  man  who  was  opposed  to 
Dr.  Mitford  in  politics,  but  was  a  favorite  poet  with  his 
daughter  in  her  girlish  days.*  Originally  a  bookseller  at 
Bath,  Samuel  Jackson  Pratt  first  attracted  notice  by  a  poem 
entitled  "The  Tears  of  Genius,  occasioned  by  the  death  of 
Doctor  Goldsmith,"  and  he  enc^avored  to  imitate  the  style 
of  that  celebrated  author.  He  published  "  Gleanings  "  and 
many  other  works,  and  preceded  Southey  as  Laureate.  But 
his  name  is  little  known  at  the  present  time,  and  many  con- 
temporary critics  spoke  lightly  of  "  the  Gleaner." 

*  Speaking  of  Pratt's  "  Contrast,"  she  writes :  "  The  poetry  is  good, 
the  politics  are  execrable." 


Samuel  Jackson  Pratt.  2$ 

S.  J,  Pratt  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

10  Tottenham  Court  New  Road,  Jan.  4,  1806. 

Dear  Sir, — Nothing  but  the  dread  I  feel  of  hazarding  the 
appearance  of  neglecting  those  to  whom  I  owe  respect  and 
gratitude  could  induce  me  to  take  up  the  pen  for  any  pur- 
poses unconnected  with  the  solemn  offices  which  I  have  been 
lately  called  on  to  perform  consequent  on  the  death  of  Mrs. 
Pratt,  whom  I  had  a  few  days  before  her  illness  gratulated 
on  a  redundance  of  health  I  neither  ever  did,  nor  ever  shall, 
enjoy.  We  have  long  been  separated  for  inevitable  reasons, 
as  to  mere  personal  intercourse,  but  we  have  for  upwards  of 
twenty  years  exchanged  the  most  cordial  and  confidential 
amity,  both  as  a  habit  and  a  principle.  We  were  gladdened 
to  visit,  converse  with,  and  consult  each  other;  and  I  am 
now  consoled  only  by  reflecting  that  attention  to  the  sick- 
chamber,  the  last  pressure  of  the  hand,  the  latest  direction 
of  the  will,  and  the  last  collected  expression  of  kind  remem- 
brance, were  given  to  myself.  I  remember  among  my  con- 
solements,  also,  that  to  me  and  a  dear  female  relative,  Cor- 
delia Skules  —  the  lady  who  wrote  in  "Gleanings"  and 
"  Harvest  Home  "  under  the  signature  of  a  Sibyl — devolved 
the  last  duties  when  life  was  no  more. 

This  communication  will,  I  am  persuaded,  be  to  you,  as  it 
must  be  to  a  great  many  other  friends,  a  sufficient  explana- 
tion for  delays  which  were  unavoidable;  and  I  do  assure 
you,  dear  sir,  nothing  short  of  such  a  cause  could  have  with- 
held me  from  pouring  forth  the  sensibility  of  my  heart  for 
the  very  lovely  verses  your  amiab^pp.nd  ingenious  daughter 
has  offered  to  my  muse.  Thank  and  bless  her  for  them,  and 
may  her  talents  and  virtues  be!  long  a  blessedness  to  you  and 
to  all  who  partake  her  dutylltr  her  love !  With  this  prayer, 
which  I  do  assure  you  is  one  of  "earnest  heart,"  I  subscribe 
myself,  dear  sir,  her  and  your  obliged  and  devoted  servant, 

S.  J.  Pratt. 

Dr.  Mitford's  friendship  with  the  celebrated  William  Cob- 
bett  commenced  at  a  coursing  match,*  and  was  increased  by 

*  Dr.  Milford  met  Cobbctt  while  on  a  coursing  expedition  near  Alton, 

2 


26  William  Cobbett. 

the  doctor's  appreciation  of  the  Olympic  games  established 
by  Mr.  Cobbett  at  Botley.  There  was  also  much  political 
sympathy  between  them,  and  the  families  eventually  stayed 
on  visits  at  each  others'  houses.  Cobbett's  letters  reflect  his 
character.  On  one  side  we  see  the  ardent  lover  of  the 
country,  the  sportsman,  and  horticulturist ;  on  the  other  the 
political  combatant,  the  giant  wielding  the  club,  and  dealing 
heavy  blows  upon  his  antagonists.  It  will  be  best  to  give  his 
letters  without  omissions,  so  as  to  retain  all  the  force  of  his 
style,  and  the  characteristics  of  the  period  in  which  he  lived. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Botley,  November  17, 1807. 
My  dear  Friend, — To  go  to  Hilsley  will,  I  foresee,  be 
impossible  for  me,  unless  I  most  shamefully  neglect  my  most 
important  concerns — namely,  those  of  planting.  The  keep- 
ing off  of  the  frosts  kept  the  leaves  so  long  on  that  I  have 
not  been  able  to  stir  a  plant  until  within  these  two  days ; 
and  at  the  very  soonest  I  shall  not  be  able  to  get  done  what 
I  must  see  done  before  the  end  of  this  month.  I  need  not 
say  how  much  it  vexes  me ;  but  so  it  is,  and  I  cannot  help 
it.  If  I  were  to  neglect  this  most  essential  concern,  I  should 
never  forgive  myself.  To  give  you  a  specimen  of  my  seri- 
ousness in  these  matters:  I  stopped  at  Ludgershall,  in  the 
rain  too,  to  gather  the  seed  of  an  ash-tree  (the  only  one  with 
seed  that  I  have  been  able  to  find  this  year) ;  and,  after  much 
difficulty,  did,  with  the  aid  of  the  parson's  ladder,  fill  a  sack 
full,  which  sack  I  tied  before  our  knees  upon  the  gig,  and 
thus  we  took  it  to  Botley,  to  the  no  small  amusement  of 
those  who  saw  us  pass,  and  to  my  great  satisfaction ;  for  I 
can  even  now  hear  of  no  ash-tree  in  the  country  which  has 
borne  seed  this  year.  After  having  taken  so  much  pains 
with  my  plants,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  risk  the  loss  of 
them,  and  therefore  I  hope  you  will  consider  my  absence 

gave  him  a  greyhound,  and  invited  him  to  another  coursing  meeting  near 
Reading.  The  Mitfords  were  introduced  to  a  variety  of  company  at 
Cobbett's  house,  "from  the  earl  and  countess  to  the  farmer."  Miss 
Mitford  gives  an  amusing  account  of  an  encounter  at  Cobbett's  between 
Mrs.  Mitford  and  a  lady  to  whom  the  doctor  had  once  been  engaged. 


William  Cobbett.  2/ 

from  Hilsley  as  absolutely  unavoidable.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Cob- 
bett and  Nancy  join  me  in  affectionate  remembrances  to 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Mitford.     God  bless  you. 

Wm.  Cobbett. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Botley,  December  13, 1807. 

My  dear  Friend, — My  wife  is  much  better,  but  is  not 
well.  .  .  .  Give  me  some  news  about  dogs.  D — n  poli- 
tics !  Is  Snip  with  pup  yet?  a  matter  of  far  more  importance 
than  whether  the  Prince  of  Asturias  be  hanged  or  not;  or 
whether  his  silly  father  be  in  a  madhouse;  or  what  grena- 
dier is  the  gallant  of  his  old  punk  of  a  mother.  We  are  well 
set  to  work  truly,  to  pester  our  brains  about  these  rogues ! 
It  matters  not  a  straw  to  us  whether  Napoleon  hang  them 
all,  or  send  them  a-begging.  And  as  to  our  fellows  at  White- 
hall and  Westminster,  we  shall  be  sure  to  do  right  if  we  hate 
them  all.  Lefevre  indeed,  as  far  as  the  spaniels  go,  is  of 
some  importance  ;  and,  though  he  has  played  you  foul,  I 
hope  he  will  live  till  we  have  got  that  more  valuable  part  of 
the  creation  out  of  his  hands. 

Miss  Mitford,  you  owe  Nancy  a  letter,  and  she  is  not  of  a 
vein  to  suffer  herself  to  be  defrauded  with  impunity.  So 
pray  make  haste  and  pay  her.  Let  it  be  a  letter  about  all 
manner  of  things  but  politicians  and  fashions,  which  are  the 
silliest  things  now  going. 

When  I  send  about  dogs  (which  are  always  the  main  sub- 
ject) I  will  send  you  some  seeds  by  way  of  episode.  God 
bless  you.  Wm.  Cobbett. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Botley,  January  13,  1808. 
My  dear  Friend, — I  cannot  indeed  imagine  how  the 
letter  should  have  miscarried.  I  shall  get  rid  of  three  at 
least  of  my  dogs,  and  shall  be  ready  to  receive,  with  many 
thanks,  those  which  your  goodness  intends  for  me;  but  of 
those  which  already  exist,  give  me  leave  to  say  that  it  will 
by  very  desirable  (if  attended  with  no  inconvenience)  that 
they  should  have  the  distemper  first.     The  spaniels  I  should 


28  Cobbett's  Family. 

very  much  like  to  have;  but  I  will  put  up  with  the  want 
most  cheerfully  rather  than  subject  you  to  anything  disa- 
greeable in  the  obtaining  of  them.  I  was  extremely  sorry 
to  hear  of  Mr.  Webb's  misfortune ;  and,  when  poor  Nancy 
heard  that  the  beautiful  blue  bitch  was  amongst  the  dead, 
she  could  hardly  refrain  from  crying. 

I  have  been  frequently  out;  but  our  sport  has  not  fre- 
quently been  good.  I  wish  you  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Mitford 
a  happy  New  Year,  and  in  this  wish  I  am  cordially  joined 
by  my  wife,  and  daughter,  and  boys.  James  always  hears 
what  you  say  of  him,  and  always  spreads  your  fame  amongst 
those  who  do  not  know  you,  and  to  whom  he  prattles.  As 
far  as  I  can  now  judge,  he  will  be  just  such  another  fellow 
as  myself;  and,  were  it  not  too  much  to  indulge  the  hope  of, 
I  would  fain  flatter  myself  that  he  will  cause  the  Register  to 
live  when  the  first  author  of  it  shall  mingle  with  his  native 
dust.  As  we  proceed  in  life,  the  objects  of  our  pursuits  and 
our  enjoyments  change;  the  change  proceeds  as  we  proceed 
towards  the  grave;  and,  even  in  our  last  moments,  there  is, 
in  general,  something  to  comfort  us.  Yet  do  the  mass  of 
mankind  talk  of  the  Author  of  this  wise  scheme  as  if  he  were 
no  better  and  no  greater  than  a  partial  politician.  Poor 
James  has  led  me  into  this  digression,  who  is  now  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  making  scratches  upon  paper,  which 
he  calls  "  drawing,"  quite  unconscious.  Nancy  has  received 
Miss  Mitford's  letter,  which  she  will  answer  very  soon.  I 
know  not  when  we  shall  stir  from  this  place ;  for,  as  to  Lon- 
don, I  hate  it  with  a  fervency  equal  to  that  of  Saint  Francis 
towards  the  devil.     I  remain  always  most  faithfully  yours, 

Wm.  Cobbett. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Botley,  May  13,  1808. 
My  dear  Friend, — I  thank  you  for  your  letters,  and  beg 
you  will  excuse  my  not  answering  them  sooner.  The  truth 
is,  I  have  been  so  constantly  engaged  between  my  Register 
and  my  timber- cutting  that  I  have  not  had  a  moment  to 
spare.  I  have  succeeded  in  shutting  up  my  footway,  and  I 
have  now  one  hundred  and  fifty  acres  of  woods  and  corn- 


Cohbetfs  Preserves.  29 

fields,  into  which  no  one  but  myself  has  a  right  to  enter. 
The  water  bounds  it  on  two  sides,  the  Titchfield  Road  on 
one  side,  and  I  can  easily  make  an  impassable  fence  on  the 
fourth.  Here  I  will,  if  I  live,  have  a  stock  of  hares  and 
pheasants.  The  timber  will  be  cleared  out,  and  all  will  be 
as  tranquil  as  possible.  I  shall  this  fall  have  my  laborers' 
cottages  here  and  there  all  round  it,  and  I  will  not  suffer 
man  or  dog  to  enter  for  the  purpose  of  sporting  till  I  have 
well  stocked  it.  The  rest  of  my  land  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Titchfield  Road  (now  about  two  hundred  and  fifty-six 
acres)  I  will  sport  upon,  and  it,  which  consists  two  thirds  of 
covers,  will  soon  be  well  stocked  too.  There  will  be  no  cours- 
ing amongst  these  coppices ;  but  it  will  be  pleasant  to  have 
plenty  of  hares  ;  and  I  dare  say  I  shall  get  some  one  to  give 
me  a  few  brace  of  young  ones.  ...  If  Snip  be  ready,  I  will 
send  for  her,  with  my  best  thanks  to  Miss  Mitford,  for 
whose  sake  I  will  take  particular  care  of  her.  In  a  parcel 
to  the  care  of  Mr.  Wright  (with  directions  to  send  it  to  you 
immediately)  I  this  day  send  some  Indian  corn.  It  must 
be  sown  in  pots,  in  a  hot-bed,  two  seeds  in  a  pot,  suffered  to 
get  four  inches  high,  and  then  be  planted  out  at  four  feet 
asunder,  in  good  ground  and  a  warm  situation.  .  .  .  We  are 
very  sorry  to  hear  of  the  death  of  a  friend ;  but  you  and  I 
must  be  clay  again,  and  it  is  useless  to  repine.  While  life 
lasts,  however,  let  us  be  kind  to  one  another,  and  amongst 
the  objects  of  our  kindness  we  beg  you  to  be  assured  that 
there  are  very  few  indeed  that  have  the  precedence  of  you 
and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Mitford.  Yours  faithfully, 

Wm.  Cobbett. 

P.S. — I  am  flattered  by  what  you  say  about  my  public  let- 
ter. Nothing  was  ever  more  read,  I  believe ;  and  I  am  not 
without  hope  that  it  will  produce  some  effect.  I  may  be  a 
very  illiterate  fellow ;  but  I  certainly  am  more  than  a  match 
for  all  those  pretenders  to  learning  and  philosophy.  There 
is  a  d — d  cant  in  vogue,  which,  when  attacked  by  plain 
sense  and  reason,  discovers  its  weakness. 

The  commencement  of  the  following  letter  refers  to  a 
visit  the  Mitfords  were  about  to  pay  at  Botley. 


30  Indian  Corn. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Botley,  August  29,  1808. 

My'  dear  Friend, — Be  it  then  on  the  19th  of  Septem- 
ber ;  but  on  one  account  I  regret  the  postponement,  and 
that  is,  that  we  shall  have  little  or  no  Indian  corn  or  melons 
which  we  have  had  and  have  now  in  an  abundance  so  great, 
or  to  make  it  a  shame  for  us  not  to  have  made  some  money 
of  the  latter.  I  have  actually  cut  one  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds'  weight  of  melons.  Those  remaining  would  weigh 
nearly  as  much,  and  the  corn  is  full  as  fine  as  ever  I  saw  in 
Pennsylvania.  The  summer  has  been  fine,  to  be  sure,  but 
I  verily  believe  that  my  mode  of  culture,  and  my  man  Rob- 
inson's, surpass  all  modes  and  all  men  in  this  kingdom. 
The  pheasants  are  all  well,  both  nids,  and  I  have  great 
hopes  of  success  in  stocking  my  woods. 

The  two  Yorkshire  pups  are  completely  recovered  and 
doing  exceedingly  well.  If  the  one  comes  from  Northum- 
berland, I  shall  be  glad  to  have  it ;  but  beyond  that  (except 
the  two  pups  of  Fawn)  I  have  no  desire  for  more  dogs  of 
any  sort,  and  have  only  to  thank  you  for  your  new  and 
obliging  offers.  I  care  little  about  the  color  of  the  dog 
puppy.  Choose  you  for  me.  They  must  be  good,  be  their 
color  what  it  may.  I  will  try  the  yeast  when  the  hour  of 
necessity  comes.  Well,  we  saw  Fonthill,  but,  even  if  I  had 
the  talent  to  do  justice  to  it  in  a  written  description,  ten 
such  sheets  as  this  would  not  suffice  for  the  purpose.  When 
I  see  you,  I  will  at  times  give  you  an  hour's  account  of  it. 
After  that  sight,  all  sights  become  mean  until  that  be  out  of 
the  mind.  We  both  thought  Wardour  the  finest  place  we 
had  ever  seen,  but  Wardour  makes  but  a  single  glade  in 
Beckford's  immense  grounds  and  plantations.  The  grass 
walks  at  Fonthill,  fifteen  feet  wide,  if  stretched  out  in  a  right 
line,  would  reach  from  there  to  London,  upwards  of  ninety 
miles ;  there  are  sixty-five  men  and  ten  horses  constantly 
employed  in  the  pleasure-grounds,  a  thousand  acres  of 
which,  being  the  interior  and  more  private  part,  are  enclosed 
with  a  wall  of  squared  stone  from  ten  to  twelve  feet  high, 
with  an  oak  palisade  at  top  pointed  with  iron.     Scarcely 


Destruction  of  Hares.  3 1 

any  soul  is  permitted  to  enter  here,  and,  from  what  we  had 
heard,  we  had  not  the  least  expectation  of  it ;  but  John- 
stone insisted  that,  if  I  wrote  a  note,  we  should  get  admit- 
tance, and  we  did.  But  not  to  see  the  house,  which  no  one 
as  yet  has  seen  the  inside  of.  The  outside  we  approached 
very  near,  and,  like  the  rest,  it  sets  description  at  defiance. 

After  all,  give  me  Fairthorn,  and  the  hares,  and  the  pheas- 
ants when  I  can  get  them.  Apropos  of  the  hares,  when  I 
read  the  account  of  poor  Lord  Clanricarde's  death,  "  There," 
said  I,  "expired  the  hares  of  that  country."  I  have  met 
Poulter  (whose  "name  should  receive  the  addition  of  an  er), 
who,  you  know,  is  a  parson,  brother-in-law  of  the  bishop, 
prebendary  of  Winchester,  rector  of  four  parishes  united  into 
two,  a  chaplain  of  the  bishop,  a  commissioner  of  taxes,  and 
a  justice  of  the  peace.  But  you  know  him.  This  fellow 
met  me  as  I  was  coming  from  Robinson's  (whose  poor  wife 
is  very  ill  indeed),  and  he  spake  me  thus  :  "  Mr.  Cobbett,  I 
am  happy  to  meet  you.  I  was  just  telling  the  farmer  (a  sly- 
looking  fellow  who  was  with  him)  that  of  the  two  manors  of 
Eaton  and  Stoke  (adjoining  that  of  Warnford)  myself  and 
Sir  Thomas  Champneys  (a  famous  cuckold)  have  now  got 
the  deputations  from  the  Chapter  of  the  college  in  conse- 
quence of  the  death  of  Lord  Clanricarde,  who  kept  them  un- 
justifiably to  himself.  And  we  mean  that  that  tyranny  shall 
no  longer  be  exercised,  but  that  any  gentleman  or  farm- 
er shall  take  their  pleasure  upon  them  when  they  please." 
Oh,  d — d  Levite  !  thought  I  to  myself,  so  you  would  fain  per- 
suade me  that  I  shall  have  better  sport  when  the  farmers 
have  killed  the  hares,  and  you  have  stuffed  your  hoggish 
parson's  guts  with  them,  than  I  had  when  they  were  pre- 
served and  when  the  whole  neighborhood  was  stocked  with 
them  by  my  Lord  Clanricarde?  I  was  a  base  dog  for  not 
telling  him  this ;  but  my  wife  was  with  me,  and  the  thing 
was  sudden.  I  leave  you  to  guess  (the  manor  of  Warnford 
being  closely  circumscribed  by  these  manors)  what  a  chance 
the  poor  hares  will  now  stand.  By  the  ist  of  October  there 
will  not  be  a  brace  left  alive  in  these  manors,  and  then,  there 
being  no  one  at  Warnford  House,  rush  they  go,  the  pot- 
hunting  crew,  into  that  manor,  and  the  hares  will  be  heard 


32  Cobbetfs  Dogs. 

squeaking  like  rats  on  the  breaking-up  of  a  wheat- mow. 
Oh,  d — d  prebendary !  thy  maw  will  now  be  crammed,  and 
sportsmen  may  hunger  and  thirst  over  the  barren  downs. 
What  a  base  dog  to  curry  favor  with  the  rascally  curmud- 
geons of  farmers  by  these  means ! 

This  is  truly  an  unfortunate  event.  Nobody  will  feel  the 
effects  of  it  more  than  I  shall.  Robinson  will  feel  it  too, 
but  not  so  severely  as  I  shall.  Do  you  know  the  proprietor 
of  Crawley  1  That  is  a  fair  place,  and  plenty  of  hares  are 
within  reach  of  us  when  you  come.  A  couple  or  three  days 
there  are  worth  a  month  elsewhere.  Cannot  you  get  leave 
for  Highclere  ?  If  so,  we  could  have  a  good  day  or  two 
there,  at  any  rate.  Mrs.  Cobbett  begs  the  ladies  to  accept 
her  kindest  regards,  to  which  you  will  please  to  add  those  of 
Your  faithful  and  most  obedient  servant, 

Wm.  Cobbett. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Botley,  October  lo,  1808. 
My  DEAR  Friend, — This  is  a  letter  of  deaths.  The  pup 
from  Yorkshire,  the  smallest  of  Cox's  spaniels,  and  the  three 
you  bought  me  last  are  all  dead,  in  spite  of  care  and  pains 
infinite.  I  do  assure  you  that  I  am  absolutely  unable  to 
encounter  the  chance  of  seeing  this  misery  and  suffering 
again.  The  piteous  looks  of  the  poor  little  things  pierced 
my  very  heart.  Another  puppy  under  four  or  five  months 
old  I  will  never  have  again  as  long  as  I  live.  If  you  have 
got  the  spaniel  dog  puppy  for  me,  and  will  be  so  good  as  to 
put  it  to  any  one  to  keep,  I  will  gladly  pay  for  it ;  I  mind  no 
expense,  but  upon  my  soul  I  cannot  bear  the  anxiety  and 
mortification.  It  is  really  making  a  positive  addition  to  the 
miseries  of  life.  The  pain  outweighs  the  prospect  of  pleas- 
ure, and  oh !  how  many  times,  while  the  poor  little,  tender 
things  were  moaning,  did  I  reproach  myself  with  being  the 
cause  of  their  unmerited  sufferings.  We  have  no  right  thus 
to  punish  any  living  creature.  How  is  Miss  Mitford's  eyel 
We  are  very  anxious  to  know,  and  pray  most  heartily  that 
ere  this  it  may  be  well.  I  do  hope  that  you  will  all  come  as 
soon  as  it  is  recovered.     Though  we  shall  no  longer  have  a 


TJie  King  Criticised.  33 

warm  sim,  I  showed  you  ample  means  of  having  a  warmy^r^, 
and  you  will  have  something  still  more  cheering,  as  warm  a 
welcome  as  heart  ever  gave.     God  bless  you. 

Wm.  Cobbett. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Botley,  October  16,  1808. 
My  dear  Friend, — I  was  yesterday  at  Winchester,  where 
I  learned,  with  some  surprise,  that  there  was  a  requisition 
going  on  for  a  meeting,  on  the  part  of  Sir  Thomas  Miller 
and  others  of  a  pretty  good  stamp.  Lord  Folkestone  will 
be  at  your  meeting,  and  I  hope  you  will  carry  the  thing  with 
a  high  hand.  The  king's  answer  to  the  address  of  the  Lon- 
doners is  the  most  insolent  thing  of  the  kind  that  any  King 
of  England  ever  did.  But  do  not  they  deserve  it  ?  Ay,  that 
they  do.  He  has  three  hundred  thousand  red-coats  to  keep 
us  down.  Why  should  such  a  king  be  at  all  delicate?  As 
long  as  the  Londoners  flattered  him  it  was  all  very  well ; 
but  the  moment  they  attempted  to  advise,  they  got  a  good 
snap.  Well,  we  deserve  it,  and  ten  thousand  times  more  at 
his  hands.  The  nation  is  a  base,  rascally  crew,  and  he  knows 
it.  Has  he  not  three  million  of  droits  of  Admiralty  now  in 
his  pouch  ?  Has  he  not  done  act  upon  act  that  I  need  not 
point  out  to  you  ?  Is  he  not  exempted  from  the  Income 
Tax?  Well,  then,  who  can  blame  him  ?  Snails  should  be 
trod  upon.  Smash  them,  old  fellow,  they  deserve  it  all.  Ay, 
and  they  will  love  you  the  better,  too.  Oh,  what  a  base  and- 
degenerate  nation  !  Do  you  feel  any  great  anxiety  about 
the  result  of  this  war  for  Ferdinand  ?  I  do  not,  and  do  not 
care  which  way  it  goes.  I  said  from  the  very  first  that  our 
people  dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  to  see  freedom  estab- 
lished in  Spain.  We  are  now  fighting  against  freedom  as 
much  as  we  are  against  Bonaparte.  We  are  taking  a  part 
in  the  war  with  a  view  of  preventing  the  people  of  Spain  from 
giving  an  example  to  ihe people  of  England.  This  is  the  real 
motive.  All  the  rest  is  sham.  We  are  spending  our  money 
and  our  blood  for  the  old  race  of  kings  against  the  people. 
We  deserve  to  be  treated  like  dogs,  and  like  dogs  we  are 
treated.     Adieu.  Faithfully  yours,         Wm.  Cobbett. 

2* 


34  Political  Labors. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Botley,  November  8,  1808. 
My  dear  Friend,  —  By  heaven,  I  cannot  leave  here! 
This  is  the  very  time  when  my  exertions  are  most  wanted, 
and  though  this  base  nation  has  no  fair  claims  upon  any  ex- 
ertions of  mine,  or  of  any  other  disinterested  man,  I  cannot 
go  a-coursing  and  see  the  people  cheated  and  abused  with- 
out an  effort  to  open  their  eyes.  The  Court  of  Inquiry  is 
the  greatest  of  all  humbugs,  and  I  must  endeavor  to  make 
it  seem  what  it  is.     Adieu.  Wm.  Cobbett. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford, 

Botley,  January  22,  1809. 

My  dear  Friend, — I  have  waited  to  be  able  to  give  you 
certain  intelligence  of  our  movements. 

26th.  We  go  to  Oxford. 

27th.  Remain  there. 

28th.  Call  at  your  house,  and  perhaps  sleep. 

29th.  Return  to  Botley. 

Depend  upon  nothing  as  to  time  of  day.  A  dish  of  tea 
will  always  do  for  my  wife,  and  a  hunch  of  bread  and  cheese 
for  me. 

I  feed  my  wild  pheasants  in  the  woods.  Shall  I  get  the 
pied  ones  ?  Our  kindest  respects  to  Mrs.  and  Miss  Mitford. 
God  bless  you  and  d — n  the  minister.  Wm.  Cobbett. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford, 

Botley,  March  16,  1809. 

My  dear  Friend, — I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  the  dogs 
in  a  picture,  but,  as  to  you,  I  like  better  to  have  you  in  a 
"  tangible  shape."  .  .  . 

I  send  by  the  man  : 

Eighteen  Chinese  roses. 

Four  tree  carnations. 

Twenty  white  pinks. 

Twenty  pheasant-eyed  pinks. 

They  must  all  be  put  in  rich  soil,  mixed  up  with  some 
rotten  dung,  and  in  a  good  aspect.    The  pinks  are  the  finest 


Political  Labors.  35 

by  far  that  I  ever  saw.  I  had  several  of  the  latter  that 
measured,  when  put  on  a  card,  four  inches  over ;  but,  to 
keep  them  to  their  size  and  beauty,  they  must  be  piped 
every  year.  .  .  . 

The  duke  will  go  notwithstanding  the  powers  of  corrup- 
tion. Indeed,  to  send  him  going  is  the  only  chance  that 
corruption  has  left.  It  is  a  strange  scene  !  Coke's  speech 
is  the  best  of  all.  I  thought  he  was  too  far  gone  in  the 
whiggism  to  be  worth  a  farthing.  I  have  worked  like  a  horse 
at  this  affair.  If  the  cause  does  not  triumph,  it  will  not  be 
my  fault.     I  shall  owe  the  duke  nothing,  at  any  rate. 

I  am  sincerely  yours,  Wm.  Cobbett. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Eotley,  January  7,  x8io. 
My  dear  Friend, — Your  letter  of  yesterday  is  greatly  im- 
portant to  me.  If  you  have  occasion  to  write  to  me  again 
on  the  same  subject  do  not  write  your  friend's  name  at  full 
length ;  and,  indeed,  if  you  say, "  my  friend,"  it  will  be  better 
than  putting  even  the  initial ;  for  the  d — d  rascals  see  all 
our  letters  inside  as  well  as  out ;  or,  at  least,  they  have  the 
power  of  doing  it.  I  propose  going  to  London  in  the  last 
week  of  this  month,  when  of  course  I  shall  remain  there 
until  the  thing  is  over.  Write  me  a  line  to  say  whether  you 
shall  then  be  in  town.  Your  being  there  will  be  a  most 
agreeable  thing  to  me,  besides  the  real  important  service  it 
may  be  of  Mark  well !  Say  nothing  about  the  matter  any- 
where. The  success  of  all  our  preparatory  measures  de- 
pends almost  entirely  upon  our  being  close.  All  that  truth 
wants  is  fair  play,  and  I  hope  we  shall  get  that.  I  beg  my 
kindest  regards  at  home,  and  am  sincerely  yours, 

Wm.  Cobbett. 

Wm.  Cobbett  to  Miss  Mitford,  Bertram  House,  Reading. 

London,  March  18,  1810. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Your  good  and  kind  father 

has  just  given  Nancy  a  copy  of  a  little  volume  of  poems,  in 

which  I  find  the  verses  on  Maria's  winning  the  cup  at  Ilsley 

inscribed  to  me,  and  for  which  honor  I  beg  you  to  accept  of 


36  Termination  of  Intercourse. 

my  best  thanks ;  an  honor  which  I  value  the  more  because 
these  verses  are  in  company  with  those  elegant  and  truly 
pathetic  strains,  addressed  to  your  dear  mother,  which,  un- 
like most  other  poetical  effusions  of  praise,  contain  nothing 
but  what  is  founded  in  truth. 

Mrs,  Cobbett  joins  me  in  kindest  remembrances  to  Mrs. 
Mitford,  and  she  begs  to  be  as  kindly  remembered  to  you. 
My  prose-writing  daughter  will  thank  you  for  herself  in  her 
own  way.  I  am  your  faithful  friend. 

And  most  obedient  servant, 

Wm.  Cobbett. 

Miss  Mitford  speaks  of  Cobbett  as  "  a  tall,  stout  man,  fair 
and  sunburnt,  with  a  bright  smile,  and  an  air  compounded 
of  the  soldier  and  the  farmer,  to  which  his  habit  of  wearing 
an  eternal  red  waistcoat  contributed  not  a  little."  Some  of 
the  reviewers  twitted  her  on  her  admiration  for  him,  and  said 
she  derived  it  from  her  father.  This  she  jealously  denied. 
In  politics  she  was  no  doubt  led  by  her  surroundings,  but 
Cobbett's  love  of  animals  and  of  country  life  would  always 
have  awakened  her  sympathy,  even  if  he  had  not  been  a 
man  of  genius. 

A  dispute  between  Mr.  Cobbett  and  another  gentleman, 
in  which  Dr.  Mitford  became  involved,  separated  the  families. 
Miss  Mitford  nevertheless  continued  to  admire  his  talents, 
though  admitting  his  violence,  and  spoke  highly  of  his  en- 
dearing domestic  qualities.  "  Milder  thoughts  attend  him," 
she  writes ;  "  he  has  my  good  wishes,  and  so  have  his  family, 
who  were,  and  I  dare  say  are,  very  amiable,  particularly  his 
very  plain,  but  very  clever  and  very  charming  eldest  daugh- 
ter." This  lady  is  still  alive,  and  retains  all  the  qualities  at- 
tributed to  her  by  Miss  Mitford  except  the  first. 


Pratt  on  Cruelty  to  Animals.  37 


CHAPTER  11. 

Letter  from  S.  J.  Pratt. — Letter  from  the  Rev.  J.  Mitford.^ 
"The  Poetical  Register." — Letters  from  R.  A.  Davenport, 
J.  P.  Smith,  and  Lord  Holland. — Weston  Grove. 

We  now  begin  to  lose  sight  of  Dr.  Mitford  and  his  polit- 
ical importance,  while  the  talent  of  his  daughter  becomes 
more  conspicuous.  From  her  early  years  he  had  en- 
deavored to  awaken  an  interest  in  her.  and,  much  against 
her  will,  to  exhibit  her  as  a  sort  of  infant  prodigy.  Now, 
when  his  extravagance  was  producing  its  results,  and  the 
sinews  for  party  warfare  were  failing  him,  he  sought  to  ob- 
tain consideration,  if  not  fortune,  by  means  of  her  poetical 
gifts.  Almost  the  only  persons  of  distinction  with  whom  he 
henceforth  corresponds,  though  not  himself  a  man  of  study, 
are  authors  and  editors,  and  the  subjects  of  discussion  are 
the  merits  of  his  daughter's  literary  compositions. 

S.  J.  Pratt  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

10  Tottenham  Court  New  Road,  October  2,  18 10. 

Dear  Sir, — Your  kind  present  came  at  the  end  of  a  long 
illness,  and  of  more  than  as  long  deep  application  in  pre- 
paring for  the  press  my  forthcoming  poem  (the  last  of  length 
I  shall  ever  offer  to  the  public)  on  the  deeply  interesting 
subject  of  Lord  Erskine's  Bill  and  "  speech "  to  prevent 
wanton  cruelty  to  animals;  and  in  course  of  the  notes  I  have 
taken  occasion  to  illustrate  the  arguments,  or  rather  the  de- 
scriptions, by  a  quotation  from  your  neighbor  Dr.  B 's 

excellent  sermon  on  bull-baiting. 

Your  daughter's  very  amiable  and  interesting  book  is  quite 
a  refreshment  to  my  spirit,  wearied  on  the  one  hand  by 
labor  and  on  the  other  by  pain  ;  for  it  would  be  in  vain 
to  tell  you  how  I  have  occupied  my  mind  on  the  before- 
mentioned  theme,  and  this  was  the  very  volume  to  lead  me 


38  The  Rev.  J.  Mitford. 

sweetly  and  softly  from  myself  to  many  charming  scenes; 
conducted  by  the  hand  of  virtue  and  genius.  Where  all  are 
amiable,  it  is  hard  to  select,  but  the  poem  addressed  to  your- 
self (page  70),  and  that  part  of  the  "  Epistle  to  a  Friend  " 
which  continues  the  subject  beginning  with  the  line,  "  How 
true  the  wish,  how  pure  the  glow,"  to  the  end  of  the  pas- 
sage, went  nearest  to  my  affections. 

And  now  I  want  to  interest  your  benevolence  and  repay 
your  bounty  by  making  you  acquainted  with  the  specimens 
of  a  most  extraordinary  young  man,  who  is  author  of  the 
accompanying  volume  of  poetic  specimens,  which  I  have 
edited.  Dr.  Valpy,  who  thinks  very  highly  of  him,  contrib- 
utes his  guinea,  but  I  wish  you  to  withhold  yours  till  you 
have  seen,  read,  marked,  and  understood  their  merits.  I 
told  you  some  of  the  truly  affecting  points  that  attach  to  the 
very  interesting  and,  I  fear,  dying  young  bard,  who  has  been 
the  object  of  my  tender  and,  alas!  unavailing  care  for  near  a 
twelvemonth,  and  is  meeting  honor  and  golden  opinions 
from  all  sorts  of  people,  and  everything  but  health,  which  is 
worth  them  all.  My  illness  and  literary  occupations  have 
thrown  me  deeply  in  arrears  of  engagement  for  most  of  the 
present  week,  and  towards  its  close  I  am  going  for  change  of 
air  to  my  friend  Mr.  Dallas's  and  some  other  families  in 
Chelsea;  but  I  will  assuredly  make  my  first  long  walk  in 
the  course  of  that  time  to  Mount  Street,  in  the  neighborhood 
of  which  I  owe  almost  as  many  visits  as  a  fair  lady  after  an 
accouchement — with  whom,  indeed,  I  assimilate  just  now,  as 
my  muse  has  recently  been  delivered,  and  I  ardently  hope, 
for  the  sake  of  my  poor  brutes  whose  cause  I  advocate,  it 
will  not  be  a  labor  in  vain.  .  .  .  Requesting  you  will 
express  my  sensibility  of  Miss  Mitford's  goodness  to  me,  I 
am,  dear  sir,  Your  obliged  and  obedient, 

S.  J.  Pratt. 

Rev.  J.  Mitford  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Benhall  Parsonage,  Saxmundham,  February  4,  181  r. 
Sir, — I  beg  leave  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  a  volume 
of  poems  which  Messrs.  Longman  transmitted  to  me  a  few 
days  since,  and  for  which  I  am  indebted  to  your  politeness. 


The  Rev.  J.  Mitford.  39 

I  have  been  very  much  pleased  with  Miss  Mitford's  poems 
generally,  and  many  passages  I  think  excellent.  In  particu- 
lar I  was  delighted  to  see  her  muse  busy  in  Northumber- 
land, the  scenery  of  which  in  many  parts  is  well  worthy  of  a 
poet.  The  counties  near  London  are  now  become  almost 
its  suburbs,  a  circumstance  which  is  of  considerable  disad- 
vantage to  some  of  our  old  poets,  particularly  to  Thomson 
and  Akenside,  whose  favorite  spot  was  Richmond  Hill — a 
place  that  will  not,  I  suppose,  be  again  celebrated  in  verse 
till  the  revival  of  the  City  Laureateship.  Miss  Mitford 
seems  peculiarly  to  excel  in  descriptive  poetry,  which,  after 
all,  is  the  poetry  that  pleases  most  and  clings  closest  to  the 
mind.  For  myself,  I  would  give  whole  pages  of  Dryden 
and  Young  for  one  of  Milton  or  of  Cowper, 

I  beg  my  best  wishes  for  Miss  Mitford's  success,  and  if 
anything  should  lead  you  or  your  family  to  Suffolk,  I  hope 
you  will  do  me  the  favor  of  not  forgetting  my  address.  I 
am,  sir,  Your  obedient  servant, 

J.  Mitford.* 

The  Mr.  Davenport  who  indited  the  letters  f  next  in  order 
was  a  prolific  author,  wrote  a  continuation  of  "  Mitford's 
History  of  Greece,"  a  "  History  of  Biography,"  and  other 
works.  He  was  also  the  editor  of  an  intermittent  periodical 
called  the  "  Poetical  Register."  Dr.  Mitford  generally  car- 
ried about  in  his  pocket  a  bundle  of  his  daughter's  poems 
for  the  benefit  of  friends  or  chance  acquaintances,  and  cer- 
tainly took  every  opportunity  of  producing  them,  though  her 
statement  that  his  "  charming  manner  "  was  their  principal 
recommendation  must  have  been  a  fond  delusion.     In  this 


*  This  gentleman,  the  Rev.  J.  Mitford,  was  a  cousin  of  Miss  Mitford 
and  a  literary  man.  He  wrote  a  volume  of  poetry,  and  contributed  the 
lives  of  the  English  poets  to  the  Aldine  edition.  Several  classical  works 
in  the  British  Museum  are  enriched  by  his  MS.  notes.  In  the  "Village 
of  Palaces  "  there  is  an  interesting  account  by  him  of  old-fashioned 
gardens.  Strange  to  say,  he  wrote  in  the  Quarterly  an  unfavorable 
critique  on  Miss  Mitford's  poems. 

t  Mr.  Davenport's  letters  are  beautiful  specimens  of  caligraphy,  being 
written  in  a  clear,  minute,  round  hand  worthy  of  an  engraver. 


40  R.  A.  Davenport. 

way  Mr.  Davenport  became  acquainted  with  Miss  Mitford's 
poetical  talent,  and  he  determined  to  make  use  of  it  to 
brighten  the  pages  of  his  Register,  which,  although  sup- 
ported by  such  names  as  Scott,  Moore,  and  Milman,  was 
somewhat  insipid  and  uninteresting.  It  was  tinged  with 
classical  pedantry,  and  abounded  with  lackadaisical  sonnets, 
in  which  mournful  swains  apostrophized  their  mistresses 
under  such  titles  as  Chloe  and  Myra;  but  it  was  not  un- 
favorably received  in  its  day. 

R.  A.  Davenport  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Twickenham  Common,  January  17,  181 1. 

Dear  Madam, — It  has  been  said  by  some  snarling  cynics 
that  ladies  have  a  propensity  to  indulge  fears  which  have  no 
foundation.  I  do  not  give  my  assent  to  this  libel  upon  the 
sex;  but,  if  I  did,  I  should  certainly  quote  you  as  a  proof  of 
its  justice.  You  tell  me  that  you  fear  the  size  of  your  packet 
is  calculated  to  make  me  repent  of  my  request.  Now,  never 
was  there  any  fear  (from  the  first  moment  when  fear  was  ex- 
pressed down  to  the  present  moment)  which  was  more  com- 
pletely groundless.  The  plain  proof  of  its  being  so  will  be 
the  appearance  of  all  your  pieces  in  my  seventh  volume.  I 
shall  not  find  it  "  expedient  to  throw"  a  single  one  of  them 
"  on  the  fire." 

I  ordered  Rivingtons  to  send  Dr.  Mitford  a  copy  of  the 
last  volume,  and  I  understand  they  have  sent  it.  I  will  now 
give  you,  as  far  as  I  know  them,  the  names  of  the  anonymous 
contributors. 

I  believe  you  are  aware  that  in  all  cases  the  letters 
R.  A.  D.  are  the  initials  of  an  inveterate  scribbler  of  the 
name  of  Davenport.  ..."  Moderate  Wishes,"  page  139 
— very  moderate  wishes  indeed!  —  this  poem  is  by  Mr. 
Hodgson,*  translator  of  "  Juvenal,"  and  author  of  "  St.  Ed- 
gar," "Lady  Jane  Grey,"  etc.  The  epigram  in  page  160 
is  not  from  "  Montreuil,"  but  from  "  De  Cailly."  Sonnet, 
page  182,  is  addressed  to  the  eternal  pamphleteer  and  fin- 
gerer  of  the  public  money,  John  Bowles.     "  Why  did  not 

*  Byron's  friend,  and  afterwards  Provost  of  Eton. 


Contributions.  41 

you  put  his  name,  sir?"  "  Because,  madam,  in  this  country 
truth  is  a  libel!"  Ode,  page  252, 1  believe,  is  by  the  Rev. 
J.  Owen,  of  Fulham.  "Address  to  Poverty,"  page  264,  is 
either  by  C.  Lloyd  or  C.  Lamb.  *'  Mortality,"  page  275,  and 
the  "Death  of  Joshua,"  page  475,  signed  S.  F.,  are,  I  rather 
think,  two  of  Southey's  early  pieces.  Ode,  page  304,  by 
Mr.  Courtier,  author  of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Solitude."  .  .  . 
"  The  Golden  Age  "  is  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Laurence,  brother 
of  the  late  Dr.  Laurence. 

I  have  now  given  you  all  the  names  with  which  I  am 
acquainted.  You  will  find  that  not  many  of  the  correspond- 
ents of  the  sixth  volume  remain  anonymous.  I  am,  dear 
madam,  with  respect  and  esteem. 

Your  obedient  servant, 

R.  A.  Davenport. 

R.  A.  Davenport  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Twickenham  Common,  March  20,  181 1. 

My  dear  Sir, — I  may  say  to  you  as  Falstaff  says  to  mine 
hostess  Quickly,  "  One  knows  not  where  to  take  you." 
Twice  within  these  five  weeks  I  have  been  in  town,  but 
without  being  able  to  find  you.  Yesterday  was  the  second 
time  of  my  visiting  London.  At  Russell  Street  they  told 
me  that  you  had  not  been  in  London  for  the  last  fortnight ; 
at  the  Mount  the  waiter  first  told  me  precisely  the  same 
story,  and  then  retracted,  and  said  that  you  were  in  town, 
and  that  he  expected  to  see  you  in  the  evening.  "Who 
shall  decide  when  waiters  disagree  ?" 

At  Rivingtons,  during  their  absence  at  dinner,  I  yester- 
day found  a  packet  and  kind  note  to  me  dated  Monday 
evening ;  but  whether  last  Monday,  or  the  Monday  before, 
or  the  Monday  before  that,  "  this  deponent  saith  not."  You 
will  see  that  your  packet  left  me  as  much  in  the  dark  as 
ever  with  respect  to  the  question  of  your  being,  or  not  being, 
in  London.  The  Rivingtons  not  being  visible,  I  could  get 
no  supplementary  information  upon  the  subject.  By-the- 
bye,  if  you  wish  me  to  receive  within  a  century  anything 
which  you  may  have  to  forward  to  me,  never  send  it  to  the 
good  folks  in  St.  Paul's  church-yard.     I  may  say  with  much 


42  Contributions. 

truth,  "  Carelessness,  thy  name  is  Rivington,"  In  spite  of  a 
thousand  entreaties  to  have  my  letters  immediately  forward- 
ed, I  yesterday  found  in  St.  Paul's  church-yard  no  less  than 
five  letters  buried,  and  (like  dead  friends)  forgotten  among 
a  pile  of  old  bills,  orders,  etc.,  etc.,  in  Rivingtons'  counting- 
house. 

Many  thanks  for  the  composition  signed  "Arion."  You 
tell  me  I  must  not  give  the  name.  At  present  there  does 
not  appear  that  there  is  any  probability  of  my  giving  it; 
and  for  this  irrefragable  reason,  that  you  have  taken  good 
care  that  I  shall  not.  Fielding,  in  "Jonathan  Wild,"  speak- 
ing of  a  jailor,  says,  "He,  first  barring  and  locking  the 
door,  took  his  prisoner's  word  that  he  would  not  go  forth." 
You  have  locked  and  barred  the  door;  you  have  not  told 
me  the  name  of  the  author. 

I  have  just  written  to  Miss  Mitford  to  thank  her  for  her 
kindness  in  sending  Dr.  Russell's  poems,  with  which  I  was 
much  gratified,  and  which  I  shall  certainly  insert  in  my 
next  volume.  .  .  .  How  goes  on  "  Christina  ?"  I  have  not 
heard  a  single  syllable  respecting  the  lady.  I  hope  the 
paper-maker,  printer,  etc.,  are  strenuously  exerting  them- 
selves to  usher  her  into  the  view,  and  consequently  the 
admiration,  of  the  public. 

I  should  have  made  more  attempts  to  see  you,  but,  alas ! 
I  have  been  miserably  bound  down  to  my  desk,  whenever  I 
could  sit  at  it ;  and  have,  moreover,  been  exceedingly  ill.  I 
am  not  now  well.  A  literary  man  has  great  occasion  to 
study  the  Book  of  Job.  I  am,  dear  sir,  truly  yours, 

R.  A.  Davenport. 

The  following  letter  is  that  above  alluded  to,  in  which  he 
thanks  Miss  Mitford  for  sending  him  some  of  her  grand- 
father's *  verses. 

*  This  Dr.  Russell  was  the  man  who  penned  the  fanciful  proposal  of 
marriage  which  appears  at  the  commencement  of  "The  Life  of  Mary 
Russell  Mitford."  From  a  portrait  in  the  possession  of  the  editor,  it 
would  seem  probable  that  his  personal  appearance  may  have  recom- 
mended his  suit.    He  was  a  student  of  Christ  Church. 


Poetry  for  the '■^  Register''  43 

R.  A.  Davenport  to  Miss  Mitford, 

Twickenham  Common,  March  20,  181  r. 
Dear  Madam, — Dr.  Russell's  verses  are  very  highly  wel- 
comed. I  like  them  very  much.  There  is  great  simplicity, 
neatness,  and  elegance  in  them.  The  whole  of  what  you 
have  sent  me  will  find  a  place  in  my  next  volume.  I  hope 
that  the  fund  is  not  exhausted.  If  not  for  my  seventh, 
at  least  for  my  eighth  volume  I  mean  to  take  the  liberty  of 
drawing  on  the  poetical  bank  of  Russell  and  Mitford,  and 
my  experience  of  your  kindness  tells  me  that  my  drafts  will 
be  honored.  There  is,  at  all  events,  one  partner  in  that 
bank  whose  poetical  funds  are  inexhaustible. 

•ir  Tf  tP  ^  •fr 

There  is  a  story  told  of  a  little  stunted  Italian,  much,  I 
suppose,  about  my  own  age,  who,  finding  some  difficulty  in 
mounting  his  horse,  prayed  to  Our  Lady  to  help  him.  Hav- 
ing put  up  his  prayer,  he  made  such  a  vigorous  leap  that 
he  went  over  the  horse,  and  saluted  the  ground  on  the  other 
side.  When  he  got  up,  he  shook  himself,  and  exclaimed, 
"  By  Jove !  Our  Lady  has  helped  me  too  much."  But  now 
I  think  I  hear  you  say,  "  Well,  sir,  what  does  this  silly  story 
mean?  How  do  you  intend  to  apply  it?"  Have  patience 
a  moment,  my  dear  madam  (patience  is  a  female  virtue) ; 
have  a  moment's  patience,  and  you  shall  know.  You  have 
expressed  a  hope  that  in  the  next  volume  of  the  P.  R.  you 
may  meet  with  the  name  of  a  certain  rhymer  quite  as  fre- 
quently as  you  did  in  the  last.  Now  I  really  think  that, 
when  the  next  volume  makes  its  appearance,  you  will  find 
yourself  in  a  similar  situation  with  the  before-cited  Italian. 
You  do  not  know  what  you  will  have  to  encounter.  Be- 
sides all  the  little  scrub  poems  meant  to  fill  gaps,  you  will 
find  a  mortal  long  epistle,  three  hundred  lines,  partly  de- 
scriptive, partly  satirical.  Is  it  not  time  for  you  to  repent 
of  your  unwise  hopes,  and  to  exclaim  in  the  words  of  the 
poet,  "  Prayers  heard  in  vengeance  by  the  angry  skies  ?" 

To  use  a  familiar  phrase,  I  have  a  crow  to  pluck  with  you. 
In  your  beautiful  lines  on  the  death  of  Sir  John  Moore,  there 
is  one  line  which  grates  discord,  not  upon  my  ear,  but  upon 


44  Poem  on  Sir  y.  Moore. 

my  mind.  You  speak  of  the  ''slaughtered  victims  of  degen- 
erate Spain."  Against  the  justice,  or  rather  the  injustice,  of 
this  line,  I  must,  my  dear  madam,  enter  my  strongest  protest. 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  admit  your  charge  against  the 
Spaniards.  Perhaps  I  am  now  biassed  by  a  long  established 
prejudice  in  their  favor.  I  confess  that  I  have  long  es- 
teemed them  for  their  firmness,  their  sedateness,  their  gen- 
erosity, their  honorable  scorn  of  meanness  and  insincerity. 
Even  their  faults  have  grown  out  of  virtues.  The  very  pride 
with  which  they  are  reproached  is  the  noble  failing  of  a 
high  mind  brooding,  with  a  melancholy  satisfaction,  over 
the  remembrance  of  happier  days  and  departed  glories, 
which, 

"  Lost  in  its  mun,  reverts  to  former  days." 

Never  did  a  Spaniard  descend  to  deal  in  that  fawning  in- 
sincerity, that  smiling  ruin,  which  degrades  the  character  of 
his  Gallic  neighbors ;  never  could  it  be  said  of  him,  as  of 
them,  that 

"  Bid  him  go  to  hell,  to  hell  he  goes." 

It  is  the  curse  of  party,  that  it  destroys  all  candor,  all 
generous  sentiment.  A  party  man  will  allow  no  merit  in 
any  individual  belonging  to  the  hostile  party.  I  have  often 
smiled  in  scorn  on  reading  the  attacks  of  the  newspaper 
oracles  of  Queen  Anne's  time  upon  the  great  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough. Those  actions  and  conquests  of  which  we  are 
now  so  proud,  they  represented  as  trifles  unworthy  of  notice. 
When,  under  the  eyes  of  the  French  army,  he  reduced  the 
fortress  of  Bouchain,  they  declared  that  he  had  done  little 
more  than  conquer  a  pigeon-house.  Party  is  still  the  same  ! 
My  prejudices  are  against  the  Wellesley  family,  but  I  must 
say  that  our  opposition  papers  have  behaved  with  a  scan- 
dalous want  of  justice  to  Lord  Wellington,  who,  in  my  poor 
judgment,  has  manifested  a  high  degree  of  military  talent. 

I  shall  break  off  now.  Mercy  on  us  !  On  looking  back 
I  perceive  that  I  have  positively  written  a  whole  volume  of 
dry,  dull  politics.  Well !  so  much  the  better.  It  is  a  very 
wise  provision  of  Providence  that  every  fault  produces,  in 
one  way  or  other,  its   own  punishment.     You  have  done 


^^  Blanch  of  Castile y  45 

wrong  to  my  favorite  Spaniards,  and  what  is  the  conse- 
quence ?  that  you  are  punished  by  a  tedious  letter  of  remon- 
strance. Punishment  enough,  in  all  conscience  !  May  it 
induce  you  to  come  forward  with  a  palinode !  I  shall  be 
truly  happy  to  hear  a  lyre  worthy  of  the  subject  sounding 
the  praise  of  Spanish  patriotism. 

It  is  time  to  return  home  after  this  fatiguing  excursion. 

I  hope  that  Christina  is  rapidly  advancing  in  her  progress. 

I  anticipate,  with  great  pleasure,  her   introduction  to   the 

public,  and  am  only  sorry  that  it  did  not  take  place  sooner. 

I  am,  dear  madam,  with  the  sincerest  esteem,  yours, 

R,  A.  Davenport. 

This  letter  seems  to  have  suggested  Miss  Mitford's  poem 
"Blanch  of  Castile."  Referring  to  it  she  writes  to  her 
father  on  March  22,  1811  :  "I  have  had  a  most  delightful 
letter  from  that  delightful  man  Mr.  Davenport ;  he  meant 
to  write  to  you  by  the  same  post,  and  was  much  pleased 
with  my  grandfather's  poems.  He  accuses  me  of  gross  in- 
justice to  the  Spaniards.  I  shall  try  to  make  amends  by 
writing  a  poem  on  a  Spanish  subject.  Perhaps  I  may  do 
more  injustice  by  my  friendship  than  by  my  enmity." 

R.  A.  Davenport  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Perry  Hill,  Sydenham,  January  8,  1813. 
Mv  DEAR  Madam, — Though  we  have  heard  of  "  Letters 
from  the  Dead  to  the  Living,"  it  seems  to  be  pretty  well 
ascertained  that  dead  men  do  not  write  letters,  and,  conse- 
quently, this  epistle  will  convince  you  that  I  am  still  breath- 
ing the  gross  and  foggy  air  of  this  world,  which  world,  as 
Sterne  observes,  really  does  appear  to  have  been  made 
out  of  the  fragments  and  fag-ends  of  all  the  other  planets. 
After  all,  I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  say  "I'm  alive,"  for 
at  best  I  am  only  corporeally  alive,  having  been  this  long 
while  mentally  and  spiritually  dead.  You  are,  therefore,  to 
receive  this  as  a  letter  from  a  lump  of  animated  clay,  and 
now  you  know  what  you  have  to  trust  to.  You  must  certain- 
ly have  thought  that  both  work  and  editor  were  as  dead  as 
a  door-nail.     Indeed,  so  convinced  was  I  that  you  would 


46  * '  Poetical  Register. ' ' 

think  so,  that  I  daily  expected  to  see  an  epitaph  either  upon 
the  book  or  the  maker  of  it.  But,  alas  !  my  hopes  were  vain 
ones ;  not  a  single  "  melodious  tear "  did  you  give  to  my 
supposed  untimely  fate.  However,  as  I  said  before  and 
proved,  I  am  alive,  though  not  over  and  above  merry ;  my 
work  too  is  alive,  and,  I  flatter  myself,  will  give  some 
pleasure.  I  send  you  a  copy,  which  you  will  do  me  the 
favor  to  accept  as  a  very  small  but  sincere  token  of  my 
thanks  and  esteem. 

If  I  remember  right,  you  once  wrote  me  word  that  you 
were  pleased  to  know  the  names  of  the  anonymous  writers  in 
the  volumes.  I  will  give  you  a  key  to  those  in  the  seventh 
volume  as  far  as  I  can.  R.  L.  E.,  pages  16,  20,  32,47,  79, 
91,  160,  213,  is  Richard  Lovell  Edgworth,  whose  name  must 
be  familiar  to  you.  R.  W.  W.,  page  56,  is  Mr.  Wade,  a  stock- 
broker. E.  C.  K.,  pages  71,  175,  is  a  Mrs.  Kerr.  W.  R., 
pages  240,  439,  is,  I  believe,  Mr.  Roscoe.  Horace  in  Lon- 
don, Messrs.  Horace  and  James  Smith,  authors  of  the  cele- 
brated "  Rejected  Addresses."  These  gentlemen  are  also 
the  writers  of  pieces  with  the  signatures  H.  and  J.  on  pages 
322, 337. 361, 417.  487,  529.  542.  L.  A.,  page  254,  Miss  Lucy 
Aikin.  Anacreon  in  Bow  Street,  page  396,  Mr.  Dubois.  J. 
M.,  page  323,  Mr.  Montgomery.  Two  heroic  epistles,  pages 
387,  403,  Ur.  Richard  Laurence.  Avran,  page  533,  is  either 
Mr.  Hodgson  or  Mr.  Bland,  but  I  think  the  latter.  Now 
you  are  as  wise  as  myself. 

I  am  busily  employed  preparing  for  my  eighth  volume, 
which  is  to  be  published  next  May.  You  laugh !  Yes,  by 
heavens  you  do  !  In  my  mind's  eye  I  see  you  laughing  out- 
right, and  I  think  I  hear  you  exclaim, "  Ay,  my  good  friend, 
two  years  ago  you  told  us  the  same  kind  of  story  with  respect 
to  the  seventh  volume,  and  lo!  the  seventh  volume  is,  even 
now,  but  just  published!  Well,  all  this  is  true — "'tis  pity 
'tis  true,  and  'tis  true  'tis  pity."  But  7iow  I  shall  do  better. 
Fortunately  sinning  once  does  not  imply  sinning  always.  I 
ivill  publish  in  May  ;  that  is  to  say,  if  I  have  "  all  appliances 
and  means."  As  to  means,  I  must  humbly  crave  you  to 
furnish  me  with  as  large  a  portion  of  them  as  you  can.  In- 
deed I  can  prove  it,  under  your  own  hand,  in  black  and 


y.  p.  Smith.  47 

white,  as  the  vulgar  beautifully  express  it,  that  you  gave 
me  an  authority,  which  has  not  been  revoked,  to  draw  upon 
the  poetical  bank  of  Mitford  and  Russell,  I  know  the  firm 
to  be  a  rich  one,  and,  therefore,  the  world  ought  to  "  set  me 
down  an  ass  "  if  I  neglected  to  avail  myself  of  my  credit. 
Really  and  truly,  I  speak  it  with  perfect  seriousness,  you  will 
confer  a  great  obligation  upon  me  by  your  early  aid.  My 
interest  and  my  pleasure  both  prompt  me  to  a  speedy  publi- 
cation of  the  next  volume,  and  when  interest  and  pleasure 
combine  to  stimulate  exertion  the  power  must  be  great.  .  .  . 
I  hope  that  you  are  as  well,  and  in  as  good  spirits,  as  you  are 
wished  to  be  by,  dear  madam,  your  obliged  friend  and 
servant,  R.  A.  Davenport. 

J.  P.  Smith  to  Miss  Mitford. 

April  9,  1812. 
Dear  Madam, — If  I  do  not  answer  your  letter  now,  it  will 
probably  be  delayed  till  you  will  justly  deem  your  knight  a 
recreant  from  his  word.  I  shall  not  condescend  to  rate  you 
for  your  artful  flattery  in  calling  me  by  that  wicked  nick- 
name, a  genius,  but  admit  that  you  are  right  in  believing  that 
there  is  a  sympathy  necessary  to  make  a  reader  of  feeling, 
as  well  as  a  writer  who  can  command  the  feelings.  This  is 
true  philosophy,  and  evinces  your  knowledge  of  the  human 
mind.  With  respect  to  my  poetry,  I  have  written  but  little 
and  published  less.  I  have  within  me  a  passion  for  literary 
fame,  but  I  have  many  other  passions  also;  have  long  de- 
voted myself  to  the  study  of  the  law,  which  has  not  been 
very  profitable ;  and  am  embarrassed  with  the  cares  of  pro- 
viding bread  and  cheese  for  a  wife  and  family,  from  whom  I 
have  known  nothing  but  affection  and  delight  mixed  with 
anxieties :  I  must  not,  therefore,  presume  to  call  myself  a 
poet.  I  am  only  an  occasional  versifier  for  amusement 
when  a  strong  fit  seizes  me,  and  I  can  get  the  strait-waist- 
coat off.  I  have  written,  let  me  tell  you,  all  my  offences 
in  this  way — a  few  odes,  some  epigrams,  some  love  verses, 
some  election  squibs,  one  satire,  two  or  three  translations ; 
planned  one  tragedy ;  translated  one  serious  opera  of  "  Met- 
astasio,"  with  songs,  which  was  rejected;  have  published 


48  Latv  and  Literature. 

three  volumes  of  "  Cases  in  the  King's  Bench,"  law  reports 
innumerable  from  the  daily  journals;  and  am  now  printing  a 
strange  book  on  a  subject  which  has  made  me  mad  for  some 
years,  and  sets  all  the  world  mad  besides,  except  you  who 
live  retired,  and,  I  hope,  will  never  suffer  much  anxiety  from 
anything.  What  is  it,  say  you?  ^1l\^  Money.  I  am  actually 
printing  a  book  to  teach  the  world  the  nature  of  money. 
And  you  will  think  me  more  mad  when  I  tell  you  that  the 
world. seems  to  me  to  know  less  of  this  than  they  do  even  of 
poetry.  I  will  confess  further.  Could  I  write  as  fast  as  I 
could  wish,  I  would  now  instantly  write  on  two  other  sub- 
jects— namely,  the  Parish  Register  Bill  and  the  East  India 
Charter;  and  I  would  write  to  shield  from  calumny  a  man 
whom,  as  a  politician,  I  dislike — George  Rose. 

Now,  my  dear  little  muse  of  Berkshire,  observe  how  I 
have  severed  the  order  of  things.  I  have  placed  you,  who 
are  as  innocent  as  the  sweetest  nun  that  ever  graced  a 
cloister,  into  the  chair,  and  I,  who  to  be  seen  should  be 
taken  as  the  father  confessor,  have  knelt  before  you  to  be 
shriven  at  the  confessional.  I  have  done  it  to  let  you  see 
that  I  am  without  guile  towards  you,  and  that  I  feel  flattered 
by  your  confidence.  As  to  the  verses  you  inquire  for,  the 
"Ode  to  Fancy"  is  in  the  Annual  Register,  1806,  the  one 
published  by  Otridge  &  Co.  The  "Eclogue  of  Fox"  is  in 
the  Gentleman'' s  Magazine  for  January  or  February,  1797, 
for  it  was  written  in  December,  1796.  The  "  Life  of  Fox" 
was  written  by  me,  as  well  as  Pitt's,  and  I  had  to  flatter  both, 
but,  by  dealing  a  little  too  plainly  in  telling  an  anecdote  of 
Lord  Carington,  I  offended  one  of  my  employers,  and  com- 
piled no  more  for  them.  My  satire  was  published,  but 
though  rather  general,  as  I  published  myself,  I  did  not  ad- 
vertise. It  was  little  read,  and  the  copies  got  into  the  hands 
of  the  assignees  of  my  bookseller,  who  was  a  bankrupt.  It 
contains,  however,  some  good  lines,  but  very  little  poetical 
feeling.  I  have  lent  a  volume  in  MS.  to  a  lady,  very  fairly 
written  out  for  my  wife,  and  she  has  forgotten  to  return  it, 
or  I  would  send  it  to  you. 

Let  me  now  change  character,  and  talk  to  you  a  little  as  a 
critic.     I  approve  of  your  plan  very  much,  except  that  I 


''Blanche  49 

should  like  to  see  "  Blanch"  published  now,  in  spite  of  the 
critics.  I  would  try  Longman,  or  Cadell,  or  some  one  who 
publishes  more  generally  than  Rivington.  He  is  the  par- 
son's bookseller,  and  they  are  rather  a  cold  set  of  readers, 
and  affect  not  to  like  ladies'  poetry,  and,  indeed,  to  like  no 
lady  but  our  Mother  Church.  If  it  could  be  published  with 
engravings  like  Scott's  "  Lay  "  and  "  Marmion,"  so  much 
the  better,  and  there  are  scenes  which  would  give  full  scope 
to  the  painter's  art.  The  tournament  is  almost  a  common 
scene  for  a  painter ;  the  banishment  might  make  a  good 
scene  ;  the  lover  at  the  window  in  the  serenade ;  so  would 
the  fall  into  the  stream,  and  some  other  passages.  I  recom- 
mend to  publish  now  because  it  is  a  Spanish  Tale,  and  the 
Spafiisk  is  all  the  rage  —  I  mean  the  Spanish  taste,  not 
money,  which,  you  know,  is  vulgarly  called  "the  Spanish." 
Perhaps  next  year  Spain  may  be  our  enemy,  and  yohn  Bull 
may  rap  against  your  JDons  most  violently;  for  John  is  very 
fickle,  very  proud,  and  very  spiteful  against  all  his  enemies. 
I  repeat  that  the  Scotch  reviewers  have  done  wonders  for 
Campbell  and  Scott ;  the  former  I  think  rather  forced,  the 
latter  is  a  mannerist.  The  nationality  of  the  Scotch  has 
done  all  this.  Moore  writes  pretty  music  as  well  as  loose 
verses.  He  is  absolutely  the  Anacreon  of  demireps ;  he 
has  therefore  a  certain  sect  of  his  own,  independent  of  all 
the  singers.  Now  I  should  recommend  you  to  make  a  party 
amongst  the  ladies,  and  steal  into  their  hearts  through  their 
ears,  also  by  getting  some  knight  or  page  of  musical  skill  to 
set  some  of  your  songs  to  music.  If  you  could  set  up  a 
Ladies'  review,  you  would  soon  beat  Scott,  or  at  least  ride 
behind  him,  or  before  him,  on  a  pillion  or  a  pillow.  By  the 
way,  there  is  an  epigram  of  mine  on  Moore  in  a  monthly 
publication  three  years  ago,  called  the  Cabinet,  new  series, 
and  several  in  the  Mo7ithly  Mirror,  signed  J.  P.  S.,  particu- 
larly a  legal  critique  on  Shakespeare  and  Massinger,  also 
"  Love's  Metamorphosis  "  in  the  Cabinet. 

The  story  of  "  Blanch,"  when  the  poem  becomes  fashion- 
able, will  be  dramatized,  and  Kemble,  who  has  just  learned  to 
ride,  will  mount  the  horse,  and  run  a  tilt  at  Young  or  his 
brother  Charles.     I  cannot  help  thinking  it  would  make  a 

3 


50  Lord  Redesdale. 

good  drama.  The  story  is  busy  and  pathetic.  For  the  two 
small  poems  I  thank  you  much.  That  to  Lord  Redesdale  is 
most  striking  to  me,  and  it  is  a  just  tribute  to  feeling  where 
one  would  least  expect  it.  As  I  have  praised  my  friend 
McKinnon's  brother,  from  a  public  feeling  that  tells  me  that 
praise  is  but  a  just  tribute  to  great  merit,  you  do  right  in 
cherishing  that  kind-heartedness  which  Lord  R.  has  shown 
by  this  bill  of  his,  and  which  I  admire  the  more  because 
men  who  have  cards  in  courts,  and  made  fortunes  by  the 
gainful  practice  of  the  law,  are  apt  to  have  their  hearts  steeled 
against  misery.  It  is  the  proper  business  of  poetry  to  rouse 
the  feelings,  to  awaken  men  to  a  sense  of  humanity,  to  sound 
the  charge  that  shall  animate  them  in  the  warfare  of  life ; 
and,  when  you  do  this,  you  seem  to  me  a  little  angel,  to  whom 
the  trumpet  of  fame  has  been  consigned,  for  wise  purposes 
and  most  noble  uses,  by  the  hand  of  a  presiding  Deity. 

What  shall  I  say  when  you  sound  the  horn  in  pursuit  of 
the  timid  hares  ?  What  but  repeat  Collins,  who,  in  his  "  Ode 
to  the  Passions,"  describes  you  under  the  name  of  Cheerful- 
ness, and  says  that  you 

"  Blend  an  inspiring  air  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 
The  hunter's  call  to  fawn  and  Dryad  known ;" 

and  in  truth,  my  dear  madam,  you  are  the  prettiest  defender 
of  what  I  have  long  thought  a  mere  relic  of  barbarity.  But 
I  yield  to  your  genius  ;  I  cannot  admire  cruelty  in  sport ; 
but,  if  wild  animals  must  be  killed,  I  know  not  how  they  are 
to  be  killed  with  less  cruelty  than  hunting,  and  giving  them 
a  run  for  it ;  for  catching  them  in  gins  gives  them  a  linger- 
ing death,  shooting  often  wounds  without  killing,  and,  as 
you  say,  the  hare  often  escapes,  and,  when  caught  at  last,  it 
is  but  one  of  the  modes  of  death.  The  act  of  running  per- 
haps bereaves  her  of  pain,  and  relieves  her  anxiety  with  fre- 
quent transitions  of  hope.  Is  not  this  a  picture  of  life? 
Are  not  we  poets  hares,  and  are  not  the  critics  dogs,  blood- 
hounds, and  all  that  is  horrible  to  us  ?  and  when  they  kill 
us,  do  they  not  say,  "Ha !  ha!  it  is  but  one  of  the  modes  of 
death  ?" 

Your  "Sisters"  is  marked  with  the  same  character  as  all 


Lord  Holland.  5 1 

your  other  writings — the  same  power  of  description,  the 
same  views  of  nature,  the  same  fluency  of  style — but  it  left 
off  just  where  I  would  go  on.  Just  as  I  had  worked  my- 
self up,  and  begun  to  be  in  love,  and  to  make  love  as  I  used 
to  do,  you  left  me,  and  dissipated  all  the  sweet  delusion  of 
your  scenery.  It  is  really  only  the  beginning  of  a  poem, 
and  as  I  had  not  my  pencil  in  my  hand,  and  did  not  note 
the  few  words  that  struck  me,  I  shall  not  at  present  criticise 
further  than  by  remarking  you  have  repeated  the  figure  of 
the  diamonds  as  descriptive  of  dew-drops,  whereas  I  prefer 
Collins's  gemni^d  with  morning  dew  as  more  general,  or  brill- 
iants as  a  softer  word,  and  that  you  have  used  the  word  lit 
instead  of  lighted.  By  the  way,  let  me  observe  that  there  is 
not  quite  incident  enough  for  your  description.  Poetry 
merely  descriptive  is  like  mere  landscape  in  painting  with- 
out figures,  or  a  fine  scene  in  a  tragedy,  which,  when  you 
have  gazed  on  it  for  a  while,  you  begin  to  wish  for  the 
actors. 

Now,  as  I  have,  I  presume,  nearly  fatigued  you,  I  must 
beg  you  to  excuse  a  hasty  scrawl,  in  parts  not  strictly  gram- 
matical, and  subscribe  myself,  with  many  thanks  in  your 
character  as  a  muse  especially,  your  true  knight  and  ad- 
mirer, J.  P.  Smith.* 

Miss  Mitford  dedicated  her  "  Poems  on  the  Female  Char- 
acter," including  "Blanch,"  to  Lord  Holland  in  18 13,  and, 
as  it  appears  from  the  following  letter,  sent  them  in  manu- 
script for  his  approval  : 

Lord  Holland  to  Miss  Mitford. 
Madam, — I  am  really  ashamed  of  not  having  answered 
your  very  obliging  and  interesting  letter,  and  not  having  ac- 
knowledged the  receipt  "of  the  pretty  poem  which  you  have 
done  me  the  honor  of  submitting  to  my  perusal.  The  fact 
is,  I  have  been  confined  to  my  room  for  several  days,  and, 
though  I  have  run  through  your  entertaining  MS.,  I  have  by 
no  means  given  that  attention  to  it  which  it  deserves,  and 
which  alone  would  entitle  me  to  give  you  an  opinion  upon 

*  John  Pye  Smith,  known  for  his  works  on  legal  subjects. 


52  Critique. 

it.  Indeed,  you  allow  a  very  flattering  partiality  for  me  to 
overcome  your  judgment  when  you  ask  me  for  my  opinion. 
I  can,  from  the  very  cursory  perusal  I  have  hitherto  made 
of  it,  say  very  truly  that  it  gave  me  great  pleasure,  and  is 
both  an  elegant  and  poetical  work,  but  it  would  require  a 
critic  more  conversant  than  I  can  pretend  to  be  with  the 
public  taste,  and  more  capable  of  discerning  the  true  merits 
and  defects  of  a  poem,  to  decide  how  far  it  is  likely  to  suc- 
ceed greatly  with  the  public,  and  what  slight  alterations 
would  tend  to  defeat  the  severity  of  that  criticism  which 
uniformly  attacks  modern  productions,  especially  when  they 
are  professed  imitations  of  the  most  popular  writer  of  the 
day.  The  loose  metre  which  Mr.  W.  Scott  has  adopted, 
and  which  you  very  naturally  follow  him  in,  is  unquestiona- 
bly very  favorable  to  narrative,  very  convenient  to  the  poet, 
and  very  happy  for  the  simple  expression  of  tender  senti- 
ments. But  it  is  apt  to  betray  the  writer  into  small  inac- 
curacies, and  perhaps  it  is  the  best  advice  one  can  give  to 
an  imitator  of  Walter  Scott  to  avoid  as  much  as  possible 
his  incorrectness  in  phrases,  rhyme,  and  metre.  For  these 
reasons  I  will,  with  your  permission,  keep  your  MS.  for  an- 
other perusal,  and  will  venture,  where  an  expression  strikes 
my  ear  as  unusual  or  incorrect,  to  pass  a  pencil-mark  under 
it ;  but,  if  I  do  so,  I  must  entreat  you  not  to  consider  the 
marks  as  intended  to  do  more  than  to  bring  the  expression 
once  more  to  your  notice,  as  it  is  at  least  full  as  likely  that 
so  incompetent  a  critic  as  myself  should  be  incorrect  in  his 
obsl^vations  as  that  you,  who  have  such  a  command  of 
verse,  should  be  faulty  in  your  expression. 
I  am,  madam,  with  many  acknowledgments, 

Your  obliged,  humble  servant,       Vassall  Holland. 

This  third  Lord  Holland  was  a  distinguished  Whig  poli- 
tician. He  was  Lord  Privy  Seal  in  the  Administration  of 
All  the  Talents,  and  was  three  times  Chancellor  of  the 
Duchy  of  Lancaster.  From  his  early  years  he  was  fond  of 
writing  poetry,  and  he  published  a  memoir  of  Lope  de  Vega. 
His  partiality  for  Spanish  literature,  and  perhaps  his  con- 
nection with  the  Chamberlayne  family,  led  to  this  dedica- 
tion of  "Blanch." 


We'stoTi  Grove.  53 

Miss  Mitford's  earliest  attempts,  like  those  of  many  au- 
thors, consisted  of  descriptive  poems,  and  were  generally 
addressed  to  some  valued  friend.  Love  of  the  country  gave 
the  charm  of  Nature  to  her  sketches  of  rural  scenery,  and 
to  the  last  she  excelled  in  that  which  first  attracted  her 
girlish  fancy.  Birds  and  dogs,  trees  and  flowers,  were  her 
delight,  and  we  now  in  1812  find  her  joyously  sketching  the 
beauties  of  Weston  Grove,  the  country-seat  of  Mr.  Chamber- 
layne,  which  she  calls, 

"  A  garland  on  the  brow  of  Time," 
in  reference  to  its  overlooking  the  ruins  of  Netley  Abbey. 

Mr.  Chamberlayne  naturally  felt  much  gratified  at  the 
compliment  paid  him  by  the  young  poetess,  and  wrote  as 
follows  to  her  father  : 

Mr.  Chamberlayne  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Weston  Grove,  near  Southampton,  Nov.  7,  1812. 
Dear  Sir, — Your  delightful  present  reached  my  hands,  I 
fear,  some  weeks  since,  but  I  was  then  so  much  engaged  in 
an  election  contest,  and  my  whole  time  since  has  been  so 
much  occupied  in  business  arising  out  of  it,  that  I  am  just 
returned  to  the  enjoyment  of  my  country  life,  and  of  those 
scenes  which  are  only  excelled  by  the  beauty  of  the  picture 
which  your  accomplished  daughter  has  so  kindly  given  me 
of  them.  It  is  strikingly  remarkable  that  her  view  of  Netley 
Abbey  and  its  scenery  coincides  with  that  of  Lord  Orford, 
written  in  1755  in  a  letter  to  Richard  Bentley,  Esq.,  and  pub- 
lished in  his  works.  I  have  not  the  book  at  hand,  but  think 
I  recollect  nearly  the  very  words  of  it:  "How,"  says  his 
lordship,  "  shall  I  describe  Netley  to  you  ?  I  can  only  by 
telling  you  that  it  is  the  spot  in  the  world  for  which  Mr. 
Chute  and  I  wish — the  ruins  are  vast,  and  retain  fragments 
of  beautiful  fretted  roofs  pendent  in  the  air,  and  with  all 
variety  of  Gothic  patterns  of  windows  wrapped  round  and 
round  with  ivy.  Many  trees  are  sprouted  up  among  the 
walls,  and  only  want  to  be  increased  with  cypresses.  A  hill 
rises  above  the  abbey,  encircled  with  wood.  The  fort,  in 
which  we  could  build  a  tower  for  habitation,  remains  with 
two  small  platforms.     This  little  castle  is  buried  from  the 


54  Net  ley  Abbey. 

abbey  in  a  wood,  in  the  very  centre,  on  the  edge  of  a  hill. 
On  each  side  breaks  the  view  of  the  Southampton  sea,  deep 
blue,  glistening  with  silver  and  vessels ;  on  one  side  termi- 
nated by  Southampton,  on  the  other  by  Calshot  Castle  and 
the  Isle  of  Wight  rising  above  the  opposite  hills ;  in  short, 
they  are  not  the  ruins  of  Netley,  but  of  Paradise.  Oh  the 
purple  abbots  I  what  a  spot  had  they  chosen  to  slumber  in  ! 
The  scene  is  so  beautifully  tranquil,  yet  so  lively,  that  they 
seem  only  to  have  retired  into  the  world." 

Have  the  charity  to  believe  that  I  never  meant  to  com- 
pare this  sketch  of  the  peer,  animated  as  it  is,  with  the  magic 
of  the  poetry  with  which  I  have  been  so  highly  gratified  in 
the  finished  stanzas  on  Weston,  though  the  objects  seem  in 
some  particulars  to  have  presented  themselves  to  both  artists 
in  much  the  same  order  and  point  of  view. 

Would  that  I  was  among  the  number  of  those  whose 
praise  is  fame  !  No,  the  "  Berkshire  Muse  "  has  acquired 
that  in  the  fullest  abundance  for  herself,  and  requires  no 
foreign  aid.  Have,  therefore,  the  goodness  only  to  express 
to  her  my  gratitude  for  the  delight  which  her  genius  has  af- 
forded me,  and  her  kindness  in  noticing  so  humble  an  indi- 
vidual as  myself.  In  most  of  her  representations  I  scarcely 
know  whether  to  admire  most  the  fidelity  of  her  portraits  or  the 
creative  powers  of  her  mind.  It  is  only  when  she  is  pleased 
to  speak  oii?ie  that  I  perceive  the  triumph  of  fiction  over  truth. 

Had  not  the  election  contest  run  away  with  all  my  treas- 
ures, it  was  in  my  contemplation  to  have  erected  a  column 
of  Purbeck  or  Portland  stone  to  the  memory  of  Mr.  Fox,  at 
a  moment  when  it  seems  forgotten  by  princes  and  people. 
Dr.  Parr  had  kindly  written  a  beautiful  inscription  in  Latin 
for  it,  and  I  should  have  flattered  myself  with  the  hope  that 
it  would  not  have  been  an  unpleasant  subject  to  the  feelings 
of  the  fair  writer  of  "  W^eston  "  to  have  introduced  in  a  future 
edition  of  her  incomparable  poem;  but  we  must  wait  for 
better  days. 

With  best  wishes  for  the  health  and  happiness  of  yourself, 
Mrs.  Mitford,  and  the  "Enchanting  Muse," 

I  am,  dear  sir,  your  obedient  and  obliged  humble  servant, 

W^M.  Chamberlayne. 


Mr.  Chaniberlayne.  55 

Referring  to  this  letter,  Miss  Mitford  writes  to  Sir  W. 
Elford : 

"You  are  right  in  supposing  Mr.  Chamberlayne  to  be  the 
gentleman  who  will  succeed  to  the  great  Dummer  property 
at  the  death  of  Lady  Holland.  Netley  Abbey  forms  part 
of  this  demesne ;  and  I  suppose  its  vicinity  to  the  large 
estate,  of  which  he  has  so  near  a  prospect,  was  one  reason, 
joined  to  its  almost  unrivalled  situation,  for  his  fixing  on 
Weston  Grove  for  the  site  of  his  fairy  palace." 


56  Sir  William  Elford. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Sir  William  Elford. — Letters  from  Him. — Specimens  of  his 
Poetry. — Letters  from  J.  Perry  and  A.  Haddocks. 

Sir  William  Elford  was  a  friend  and  club-mate  of  Dr. 
Mitford,  who  apparently  first  met  him  at  Graham's  Club,  in 
St.  James  Street,  He  was  a  Tory,  and  belonged  to  a  good 
Devonshire  family,  of  old  settled  at  Longstone,  among  the 
tors  of  Dartmoor;  and  there  was  a  tradition  that  one  of  his 
ancestors  had  escaped  the  Roundheads  by  taking  refuge  in 
a  cavity  of  Sheepstor  known  as  the  Pixies'  house.  Person- 
ally, the  present  representative  was  worthy  of  the  line,  for  he 
was  created  a  baronet  by  Pitt  in  1800,  and  was  an  M.P., 
and  Recorder  for  Plymouth.*  Moreover,  he  was  a  man  of 
taste  and  cultivation,  though  but  for  an  occasional  pamphlet 
he  did  not  enter  the  field  of  literature.  He  was  fond  of 
poetry  and  painting,  and  some  of  his  pictures  appeared  in 
the  London  exhibitions. 

Sir  William's  acquaintance  with  Miss  Mitford  seems  to 
have  commenced  in  her  father  showing  him  some  of  her 
manuscript  verses,  for  his  first  letter  to  her  was  to  request 
that  she  would  send  him  more  of  her  poems.  Her  reply 
was  the  beginning  of  a  close  and  remarkable  correspondence 
between  the  young  girl  and  the  elderly  gentleman,!  from 
which,  though  much  his  superior  in  talent,  she  greatly 
profited.  Not  only  did  she  receive  useful  advice  from  his 
experience,  but  she  became  accustomed  to  write  full  and  in- 
teresting letters,  and  gradually  formed  the  style  for  which 
she  was  afterwards  celebrated.  Sir  William  is  occasionally 
alluded  to  in  her  letters  to  friends.      She  speaks  of  his 

*  He  was  a  partner  in  a  bank  in  that  town. 

t  He  had  three  daughters,  older  than  Miss  Mitford,  one  of  whom  be- 
came Lady  Adams.     He  lived  to  a  great  age. 


.    Moss  Roses.  5  7 

"having  painted  nearly  every  British  bird,"  and  of  one  of 
his  pictures  being  "destined  for  an  apartment  in  Carlton 
House — a  present  to  the  Regent."  He  stayed  at  one  time 
on  a  visit  with  the  Mitfords  at  Reading,  and  she  says  that 
"he  talks  as  much  as  a  woman,  and  visits  everybody  in  that 
enormous  county.  He  is  the  kindest,  cleverest,  warmest- 
hearted  man  in  the  world."  She  did  not,  of  course,  escape 
being  twitted  about  her  partiality  for  him,  and  she  adds,  "  He 
is  perfect  in  everything  but  not  being  in  love  with  me.  I 
shall  not  marry  Sir  William  Elford;  for  which  there  is  a  re- 
markably good  reason — the  aforesaid  Sir  William  having 
no  sort  of  desire  to  marry  me ;  neither  shall  I  ever  marry 
anybody.  He  has  an  outrageous  fancy  for  my  letters,  and 
marrying  a  favorite  correspondent  would  be  something  like 
killing  the  goose  with  the  golden  eggs."  Referring  to  his 
correspondence,  she  observes,  "  There  is  something  of 
Horace  Walpole's  mixture  of  humor  and  courtliness  about 
his  style,"  and  she  writes  to  him  on  April  22,  1812:  "I 
keep  your  letters  as  choicely  as  the  monks  were  wont  to 
keep  the  relics  of  their  saints;  and  about  sixty  years  hence 
your  grandson,  or  great-grandson,  will  discover  in  the  family 
archives  some  notice  of  such  a  collection,  and  will  write  to 
the  grandson  of  my  dear  cousin  Mary  (for,  as  I  intend  to  die 
an  old  maid,  I  shall  make  her  heiress  to  all  my  property,  i.e. 
my  manuscripts)  for  these  inestimable  remains  of  his  vener- 
able ancestor.'*  Miss  Mitford's  letters  to  Sir  William  ¥\- 
ford  are  well  known,  and  we  now  propose  to  show  the  other 
side  of  the  picture  by  printing  some  of  his. 

Sir  W.  Elford  to  Miss  Mitford. 

18  Bury  Street,  April  9,  1812. 
Your  letter  evinces  how  little  attention  ought  to  be  paid  to 
the  most  positive  testimony,  and  that  moss-roses  which,  when 
viewed  at  some  distance  from  the  place  where  they  grow, 
appear  to  be  white,  are,  on  closer  inspection,  found  to  be  of 
a  maiden  blush.  Pray,  are  you  certain,  however,  of  this 
fact.-*  Were  not  Mr.  Swallow's  moss-roses  white  before  your 
approach,  and  did  not  the  blush  proceed  from  re/lection? 
You  know  that  the  purest  bodies  are  sometimes  suffused  by 

3* 


58  Talismanic  Ball. 

involuntary  reflections  of  another  kind.  I  hope  you  consider 
this  all  very  poetical  and  pretty ;  however,  I  do  not  mean  to 
let  you  escape  from  the  trouble  I  intended  to  impose  on  you, 
and  therefore  I  still  beg  you  will  be  kind  enough,  the  next 
time  you  go  to  Reading,  to  direct  Mr.  Swallow  to  send  by 
Fromont's  coach,  to  be  addressed  to  me  at  Bickham,  near 
Plymouth,  four  of  the  light-colored  moss-roses,  and  six  or 
eight  of  the  yellow  roses,  and  two  or  three  other  cheap 
plants  such  as  he  would  recommend,  and,  among  others, 
some  of  the  evening  primrose  which  has  been  rendered 
famous  by  a  certain  songstress,  and  of  which  we  have  none 
in  Devonshire.  This  commission  being  executed,  you  will  be 
pleased  to  favor  me  with  a  few  lines,  enclosing  Mr.  Swallow's 
charge.  So  much  for  business,  in  which  I  make  no  scruple 
of  employing  my  good  and  fair  correspondent. 

By-the-bye,  we  are  such  good  friends  that  there  ought  to  be 
something  of  a  free  communication  between  us,  and  I  shall 
inform  you  of  a  circumstance  that  happened  to  myself  for- 
merly, and  which  is  known  to  very  few  people  in  the  world. 
When  on  my  travels,  in  my  younger  days,  in  the  upper  part 
of  Ethiopia,  an  event  occurred  that  almost  recalls  the 
"Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments  "  to  one's  mind.  I  was 
pursuing  my  way  on  the  edge  of  a  forest  in  beautiful  rocky 
scenery,  attended  by  my  servant  and  a  native  guide,  when, 
hearing  the  cries  of  distress,  I  pushed  forward,  and,  dreadful 
to  relate,  saw  an  old,  venerable-looking  man  under  the  paw 
of  a  huge  lion,  which  seemed,  like  all  the  cat  kind  {bathos), 
to  delight  in  tormenting  its  prey  before  it  was  put  to  death. 
I  hastened,  like  a  rash  fool,  to  his  assistance,  and,  with  the 
aid  of  my  two  companions,  rescued  the  sufferer  by  destroy- 
ing the  lion.  He  was  so  much  injured,  however,  that  I  de- 
spaired of  his  recovery,  and  we  had  some  difficulty  to  get 
him  into  his  hermitage,  which  was  situated  in  a  cavity  of  the 
rocks  very  near,  where  in  a  few  hours  he  breathed  his  last. 
Just  before  he  died  he  presented  me  with  an  invaluable 
though  dangerous  gift,  the  uses  of  which  he  shortly  ex- 
plained: it  consisted  of  a  small  brilliant  ball,  with  curious 
characters  engraven  on  it,  which,  when  held  in  the  right 
hand,  rendered  the  possessor  invisible,  and,  in  the  left,  trans- 


Selborne.  59 

ported  him  whither  he  willed,  and  had  both  operations  when 
the  two  hands  joined. 

I  have  seldom  ventured  to  use  this  wonderful  talisman ; 
but  a  fortnight  ago,  having  employed  myself  in  reading 
White's  "  Selborne,"  and  being  extremely  fond  of  natural 
history,  and,  of  course,  highly  delighted  with  that  book,  I 
was  seized  with  an  insuperable  desire  to  see  that  village 
which  Mr.  White  has,  in  the  eye  of  a  naturalist,  made  classic 
ground,  and,  using  my  means,  I  was  presently  transported 
thither,  and  walked  invisibly  through  the  village,  the  Hang- 
ers, the  places  where  the  beech  woods  had  been  destroyed, 
and,  in  short,  every  part  of  that  scenery  which  the  unaffected 
language  and  sterling  sense  of  the  author  has  rendered  so 
interesting.  After  having  satiated  my  curiosity,  I  proceeded 
on  my  return  by  slow  steps,  and  first  having  willed  myself 
in  an  inn  at  Alresford  (for  under  the  operation  of  this  super- 
natural power  I  am  subject  to  extreme  hunger),  and  having 
made  a  good  repast,  I  heard  the  names  of  Mr.  and  Miss 
Mitford  mentioned,  and,  on  inquiry,  found  they  were  then 
actually  in  the  town,  and  were  those  friends  whom  I  wished 
earnestly  to  see.  Taking  my  brilliant  in  my  right  hand,  I 
walked  to  the  house  of  a  Mr.  Pollen,  or  Holland,  or  some- 
thing very  like  it,  and  saw  you  sitting  in  a  neat  little  draw- 
ing-room alone,  sometimes  reading,  sometimes  ruminating; 
the  apartment  was  hung  round  with  prints  of  various  kinds, 
and  most  neatly  furnished.  You  several  times  in  contem- 
plation spoke  aloud,  unconscious  of  being  observed,  and 
seemed  to  refer  to  Lord  Redesdale  and  some  poem,  which, 
I  suppose,  you  had  lately  produced,  and  which,  from  some 
lines  you  repeated,  seemingly  with  a  view  to  alter  them,  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  exquisitely  beautiful.  There  was  one 
part  of  5-our  meditations  which  I  could  not  make  out,  but 
which  appeared  to  refer  to  some  thing  or  person  in  which 
you  were  deeply  interested.  You  sometimes  struck  me  as 
talking  of  a  donkey,*  then  of  the  Mediterranean;  from  thence 
I  heard  something  of  a  Quartermaster-general:  in  short,  all 
this  was  like  the  incoherence  of  a  dream,  which  is  always 

*  A  reference,  perhaps,  to  General  Donkin.     See  p.  127. 


6o  "  The  Sisters."' 

the  case  with  the  waking  reveries  of  those  who  are  uncon- 
sciously thinking  aloud.  I  could  hardly  help  laughing  at 
your  starting  once  or  twice  at:  a  little  bustle  which  my  mov- 
ing occasioned,  and  once  particularly,  as  I  approached  so 
near  as  very  slightly  to  touch  you.  The  weather  was  very 
bad,  and  I,  being  wet,  was  afraid  the  dripping  from  my  clothes 
might  tend  to  discover  me,  for  they  became  visible  on  the 
floor,  and  I  was  just  going  out  of  the  room  when  you  said 
something  of  a  friend  of  yours,  one  Maria,  somebody  to 
whose  expected  accouchement  you  seemed  to  be  looking 
forward  with  some  anxiety  (by-the-bye,  I  hope  she  has  been 
confined,  and  is  as  well  as  can  be  expected  in  her  con- 
dition). Your  father  I  saw  in  the  street,  more  wet  than 
myself,  followed  by  greyhounds,  and  accompanied  by  other 
sportsmen.  By  the  time  I  returned  to  Bath  I  was  tired  to 
death,  and  shall  not  presently  have  recourse  to  my  brilliant 
ball  again.  This  adventure  is  communicated  to  you  in  per- 
fect confidence,  and  I  desire  you  will  not  read  the  account 
of  it  to  your  papa  and  mamma ;  but,  with  my  best  compli- 
ments to  them,  believe  me,  my  dear  Mary's  faithful  and 
affectionate  friend,  W.  Elford. 

P.S. — I  fear  it  is  so  late  that  I  cannot  get  a  frank  to-day. 
On  looking  at  the  fourth  side  of  the  enclosed  sheet  I  found 
it  beautifully  blotted,  but  the  discovery  was  too  late,  so  you 
must  excuse  it. 

The  story  in  this  letter  is  to  be  explained  by  the  fact  that 
Miss  Mitford  was  at  the  time  he  mentions  on  a  visit  at  Al- 
resford,  the  home  of  her  childhood,  staying  in  such  a  room 
and  engaged  in  such  occupations  as  he  describes.  He  ob- 
tained this  information,  which  he  ascribes  to  a  talisman,  from 
an  accidental  meeting  with  Dr.  Mitford. 

Sir  W.  Elford  to  Miss  Mitford. 

18  Bury  Street,  Sunday  morning,  April  19,  1812. 
I  have  just  finished  your  poem  of  "  The  Sisters,"  and  tell 
you  truly  and  fairly  that  I  read  it  with  an  interest  and  de- 
light which  I  cannot  express.     I  like  it  better  than  anything 


Talisman.  6i 

you  have  done  (am  I  right  or  wrong?),  and  you  have  con- 
trived to  mix  up  poetical  imagery  and  expression  with  such 
a  great  degree  of  interest  as  I  have  never  before  found  in 
any  poem.  Have  you  invented  it  all,  or  have  you  stolen  it, 
or  borrowed  it  from  some  known  or  unknown  tale  ?  Not 
that  it  signifies.  Shakespeare  is  said  to  have  borrowed  some 
of  his  subjects,  but  he  made  them  his  own,  as  you  have 
done.  In  short,  it  is,  in  my  mind,  quite  perfect,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  two  or  three  words,  which  I  don't  like.  .  .  . 

Pray,  my  dear,  can  you  tell  me  what  I  have  done  with 
your  last  letter?  It  is  not  in  my  right  pocket  or  my  left 
pocket,  and  I  want  to  look  at  it,  and  can't  find  it,  although  I 
am  quite  certain  that  it  is  very  safe  somewhere,  as  I  care- 
fully preserve  all  your  letters.  Are  you  sure  you  have  not 
taken  it  up  ? 

Your  papa  was  here  just  now,  and  swore  through  thick 
and  thin  that  the  two  first  stanzas  in  "  The  Sisters  "  are  not 
quotation.  I,  on  the  contrary,  swore  in  a  similar  manner 
that  they  are  so,  having  "  "  at  the  beginning  of  the  first  and 
end  of  the  second ;  but  at  last  he  said  they  were  from  a  song 
of  your  own,  so  that  he  was  but  a  little  perjured,  and  I  not 
at  all.  The  thought  in  them  is  beautiful,  and  quite  new  to 
me,  and  you  are  a  dear  little  Mary,  and  a  great  poet,  and 
you  are  also  a  little  and  a  great  flatterer  in  admiring  my 
nonsensical  talisman.  You  must  know  that  I  tried  some- 
thing like  a  similar  experiment  on  a  young  lady  (not  a  cor- 
respondent) to  whom  I  had  occasion  to  write  about  some 
business  last  year,  and  who  had  just  before  given  a  ball, 
which  had  been  so  far  described  to  me,  particularly  as  to  a 
vase  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  a  man  who 
appeared  particularly  attentive  to  her,  as  to  furnish  me  with 
sufficient  particulars  on  which  to  found  a  little  fiction.  She 
was  a  very  good  sort  of  plain,  matter-of-fact  person.  She 
answered  the  business  part  of  the  letter,  and  merely  re- 
marked on  the  other  part  that  I  was  mistaken  in  my  infer- 
ences from  the  major's  attention  to  her  ;  and  I  am  quite 
clear  that  she  has  ever  since  firmly  believed  that  I  possess 
an  invisible  girdle  and  wishing- cap  like  Fortunatus,  and 
really  appeared  invisible  at  her  ball  —  that's  Irish!     On 


62  Flowers. 

turning  the  corner,  I  see  my  paper  is  very  smutty,  for  which 
I  humbly  beg  pardon. 

I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  executing  my  com- 
mission, and  for  your  evening  primroses,  which  I  shall  prize 
not  a  little.  Your  papa  told  me  you  had  plenty,  but  I  could 
not  ask  for  them,  as  we  were  then  in  a  plot  against  you.  I 
had  been  getting  from  him  some  particulars  on  which  to 
found  my  talismanic  story,  and,  of  course,  was  not  to  appear 
to  have  seen  him,  and  the  letter  was  also  necessarily  ante- 
dated. Such  deceivers  are  men — take  care  of  them,  child. 
Your  papa  and  I,  however,  are  past  being  gay  deceivers. 

By  the  way,  I  was  not  a  little  edified  at  the  exemplary 
modesty  you  display  in  describing  your  humble  and  mod- 
erate choice  of  flowers,  you  having,  I  think,  enumerated  all 
those  most  admirable  in  the  garden,  the  wood,  and  the  field. 
I  remember  a  similar  instance  of  forbearance  in  a  country 
Devonshire  justice,  who  said  that  no  man  was  less  solicitous 
for  the  luxuries  of  the  table  than  himself — give  him  a  turbot 
of  ten  pounds,  a  haunch  of  venison,  and  a  green  apricot  tart, 
and  the  devil  might  take  all  the  beefsteaks  and  mutton-chops 
in  the  world ! 

Sir  W.  Elford  to  Miss  Mitford, 

Bickham,  June  i8,  1812. 
I'll  tell  you  what,  young  woman,  you  are  a  little  insidious, 
flattering  gypsy,  and  want  to  evince  your  power  of  turning 
my  brain  by  telling  me  that  I  can  write  letters,  and  that  I 
have  made  a  new  observation  about  hanging  madmen.  I 
really  believe  that  in  this  remark  you  are  very  much  mis- 
taken— at  least,  I  am  not  at  all  aware  of  the  merit  of  having 
found  out  anything  new.  Did  not  Cervantes  or  somebody 
tell  a  story  founded  on  the  same  opinion,  and  which  serves 
to  corroborate  it — a  madman  (mad  on  that  one  point,  as  far 
as  could  be  discovered)  used  to  amuse  himself  by  walking 
about  the  streets  of  Madrid  with  a  very  large  stone  on  his 
shoulder,  and  when  he  came  near  a  dog  he  always  let  it  fall 
on  his  head  and  crushed  it  to  death.  Having  one  day  per- 
formed this  operation  on  a  favorite  pointer,  whose  master 
was  by,  the  owner  attacked  the  madman,  and  gave  him  a 


Devonshire  Words.  63 

most  severe  beating,  calling  out  constantly, "  You  scoundrel, 
that's  for  killing  my  pointer !"  The  next  day  the  man,  how- 
ever, betook  himself  to  his  favorite  diversion,  and,  having 
killed  a  brace  or  two  of  dogs,  was  in  the  act  of  letting  his 
stone  loose  on  another,  when  he  suddenly  called  out,  "  Oh, 
that's  a  pointer !"  and  immediately  desisted.  So,  you  see, 
the  opinion  is  quite  as  old  as  when  Don  Quixote  was  living, 
or  at  least  when  his  historian  was  so.  Now  I  have  been 
thinking  for  at  least  a  minute  how  to  make  an  easy  transi- 
tion from  this  to  another  subject  of  your  letter,  and,  not  suc- 
ceeding, I  must  do  without  it.  Women  understand  this,  as 
well  as  most  other  parts  of  letter-writing,  much  better  than 
men,  and  slide  from  one  topic  to  another  without  any  of 
those  rough  jerks  occasioned  by  sudden  chasms.* 

You  talk  of  curiosity  and  women  being  related.  I  won't 
allow  more  curiosity  to  women  than  to  men,  and  you  only 
want  to  establish  the  fact  in  order  to  display  the  female 
character.  Curiosity  is  only  another  name  for  a  thirst  of 
knowledge.  'Tis  indeed  applied  opprobriously  by  wicked 
men  when  coupled  with  the  female  character,  but  very  im- 
properly certainly,  especially  as  to  the  occasion  which  gave 
rise  to  your  observation. 

My  two  Devonshire  words  have  done  wonders  in  drawing 
out  so  acute  and  learned  a  commentary  from  you.  It  puts 
me  much  in  mind  of  the  voluminous  commentators  on 
Shakespeare,  many  of  whom  would  have  been  spared  won- 
derful pains  had  they  been  furnished  with  a  correct  copy  of 
the  author's  performance.  I  have  only  one  objection  to 
your  beautiful  and  ingenious  solution  of  daveid,  which  I 
doubt  not  would  have  been  quite  just  had  the  word  been  so, 
instead  oidaver'd,  which  was  what  I  wrote,  or  meant  to  write. 
Perhaps  (for  you  have  heard  of  such  a  thing)  the  writing  was 
not  quite  legible,  which  was  certainly  my  fault,  and  not 
yours.  "  Daver'd,"  then,  madam,  you  are  to  understand,  is 
the  participle  of  a  supposed  verb  neuter,  to  daver;  and,  jok- 
ing apart,  is  with  us  a  very  expressive  word.     A  daver'd 

*  Miss  Mitford,  when  making  transitions  in  her  letters,  often  uses  a  CND, 
and  alludes  to  Sir  William's  notion  of  jerks. 


64  Devonshire  Words. 

flower  is  in  a  state  between  faded  and  dead ;  a  corruption 
of  cadaverous.  It  is  often  applied  to  a  person  who  looks 
very  ill,  and  very  wishd,  from  which  wishness,  or  wishdness, 
is  derived.  A  wishd-\ooYvn^  man  or  woman  is,  in  our  con- 
ception, a  poor, miserable,  inergetic-looking  person;  but  the 
substantive  wishness  is  applied  to  things  of  a  ghostly  kind 
which  cannot  be  distinctly  described.  A  dear  and  well-ap- 
pointed ghost,  that  is  a  pale  representative  of  some  one  de- 
parted, would  be  called  a  ghost ;  but  if  any  one  is  scared  by 
he  can't  tell  what,  he  is  said  to  have  seen  wis/mess.  Have  I 
been  able  to  describe  these  beauties  in  our  language  so  as 
to  be  understood  ? 

I  had  not  despatched  my  last  letter  ten  minutes  before  I 
recollected  that  I  had  not  answered  your  kind  query  relative 
to  the  kind  of  stanza  in  which  a  song  would  be  most  wel- 
come. I  can  only  say  "  in  any  that  you  like  best."  We 
don't  sing  much,  but  whatever  you  send  will  be  most  kindly 
and  thankfully  received,  and  some  tune  will  be  adapted  to  it, 
or  invented  for  it.  I  must  leave  off  now,  and  finish  another 
time.  I  am  called  to  get  into  the  carriage,  and  travel  seven 
miles  to  dinner. 

June  24. — From  the  date  of  the  beginning  of  this  letter, 
six  days  ago,  you  must  necessarily  have  been  expecting  it  for 
the  last  four  days,  and  I  am  really  sorry  to  disappoint  you, 
but  you  may  depend  on  receiving  it  within  these  four  days 
to  come,  with  which  promise  you  will,  I  know,  be  quite  aisey ; 
and  so  I  shall  now  tell  you  that  I  have  been  in  the  midst  of 
an  election  at  Plymouth,  occasioned  by  Sir  T.  Tyrwhitt's  hav- 
ing accepted  of  the  office  of  King's  GeJitlenian  Usher  of  the 
Black  Rod,  and  Daily  Waiter.,  for  such  is  his  style  and  title. 
Colonel  Bloomfield*  came,  and  had  indeed  canvassed  be- 
fore, and  a  Mr.  Longmead,  a  brewer,  had  long  had  his  own 
consent  to  represent  the  borough;  but  as  his  father  had  once, 
by  some  strange  conduct,  got  into  the  representation,  and 
afterwards  quitted  it  for  a  sum  of  money  to  Mr.  Tyrwhitt,  I 
determined  as  far  as  in  me  lay,  as  did  many  others,  that  the 
brewer  should  not  work  for  us,  and  we  have  made  him  hop 

*  Afterwards  Lord  Bloomfield. 


Colotiel  Bloomfield.  65 

off.  I  hope  you  do  not  consider  this  as  punning.  I  had  the 
honor  of  proposing  Colonel  B.,  and,  as  he  tells  me,  became 
his  godfather  for  more  than  he  shall  be  able  to  perform  ;  and 
he  was  unanimously  elected,  the  other  having  declined  now 
and  forever.  The  canvassing  therefore,  the  election,  the 
various  dinners,  and  lastly  the  great  dinner  on  the  great 
day,  at  all  of  which  I  have  been  assisting,  aiding,  and  abet- 
ting, have  taken  me  up  so  entirely  that,  although  I  have  not 
forgotten  my  dear  and  good  and  kind  correspondent,  I 
have  not  been  able  to  consummate  my  letter,  and  you  see  it 
is  swelling  in  size  beyond  a  single  sheet;  but  that  I  don't 
care  sixpence  about,  nor  need  you  do  so.  The  new  mem- 
ber shall  frank  it,  and  this  shall  not  be  the  last  frank  you 
shall  get  from  him,  as  I  have  {since  his  election,  which  I  men- 
tion to  convince  you  I  was  not  bribed)  made  him  promise 
to  direct  all  letters  for  you  which  I  should  send  to  him, 
for  which — I  have  scratched  those  words,  as  I  am  sure  I 
don't  know  what  they  were  to  lead  to.  I  should  add  that 
Bloomfield  is  a  very  old  friend  of  mine,  or  I  should  not 
have  made  such  a  proposal. 

Apropos  to  Colonel  Bloomfield  (he  is  an  Irishman),  I  have 
been,  and  am  now,  in  the  midst  of  reading  Miss  Edgeworth's 
4th,  5th,  and  6lh  vols,  of  "  Tales  of  Fashionable  Life."  I 
don't  enter  into  disquisitions  about  whether  they  come  up  to 
or  fall  short  of  her  other  works,  but  I  am  most  highly  enter- 
tained with  them.  Such  admirable  delineation  of  charac- 
ter and  such  excellent  tendencies  one  seldom  sees;  and  her 
stories  are  interesting,  not  from  intricacy  of  plot,  but  from 
exact  representations  of  Nature ;  and  she  has  now  and  then 
evinced  an  extraordinary  power — at  least,  so  it  appears  to 
me — that  of  inventing  a  new  character,  and  of  marking  it  by 
making  the  person  act  so  as  he  or  she  would  act,  with  such 
propensities  and  objects  as  she  attributes  to  him  or  her,  in  the 
situation  in  which  they  appear.  Have  I  made  myself  com- 
prehended, for  I  have  expressed  myself  rather  confusedly? 
In  short,  this  is  the  female  age,  the  men  are  beaten  hollow 
by  you;  confound  you  all  for  your  insolent  usurpation.  But 
let  me  rather  say,  God  bless  you  all  for  the  fund  of  delight- 
ful  entertainment   I    find   in  your  writings.     Do  tell   me 


66  Bonaparte. 

whether  you  have  ever  met  with  a  novel  called  "  Anne  of 
Brittany;"  'tis  not  of  a  high  class,  and  is  an  historical  story, 
but  I  know  the  author,  and  want  your  opinion.  Have  I  any- 
thing else  to  say  at  this  time?  I  am  writing  before  break- 
fast, for  you  must  know  that  I  am  a  farmer,  and  an  early 
riser.  Remember  me  most  kindly  to  your  papa  and  mamma, 
and  think  me,  as  I  am,  most  affectionately  your  friend, 

W.  Elford. 

Sir  W.  Elford  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Nov.  I,  1812. 
Did  not  you  say  something  of  your  being  a  little  of  a 
democrat?  I  fancy  you  was  once  a  good  deal  so  (now  can't 
I  tell  whether  that's  a  provincialism  or  no?),  but,  like  all 
other  people  of  good  -  sense,  observation  and  experience 
render  you  otherwise;  at  least,  it  makes  you  think  it  neces- 
sary to  appear  otherwise.  Now  pray.  Mademoiselle  Demo- 
crate,  what  do  you  think  of  M.  Bonaparte's  situation  ?  Is 
he  on  a  bed  of  roses,  or  on  a  Moscow  gridiron  with  the  city 
cinders  under  him  ?  Pray,  as  you  are  a  well-wisher  of  his, 
desire  them  to  put  some  pepper  and  salt — for  a  man  like 
him  should,  in  no  state  of  his  life  or  death,  have  any  mawk- 
ishness  or  insipidity.  Do  you  think  he  can  return  in  post- 
chaises  to  Paris  as  usual,  unless  his  army  escorts  him  back? 
Come,  tell  me  what  you  think. 

Miss  Mitford  seems  to  have  profited  by  the  following 
advice: 

Sir  W.  Elford  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Bickham,  Nov.  25,  1812. 

I  sit  down  to  begin  a  letter  (to  be  finished  as  occasions 
offer)  to  my  dear,  good  little  correspondent,  and  to  thank 
her  for  the  long  and  most  entertaining  one  I  have  lately  re- 
ceived from  her.  Pray  never  refrain  from  writing  much  be- 
cause you  want  time  aftd  inclination  to  read  over  what  you  have 
written.  I  would  a  thousand  times  rather  see  what  falls 
from  your  pen  naturally  and  spontaneously  (that  is,  in  a 
letter)  than  the  most  polished  and  beautiful  composition 
that  ever  went  to  the  press ;  and  so  would  you,  I  doubt  not, 


Mifs  Seivard.  6y 

from  your  correspondents.  Upon  this  subject  some  very 
fine  and  trite  sayings  might  be  uttered,  such  as  how  infinitely 
more  beautiful  to  a  naturalist  (which  I  pretend  to  be  a  little 
of)  is  the  ore  in  its  native  colors  and  crystallizations  than  the 
most  polished  state  to  which  the  pure  metal  can  be  brought. 

Sir  W.  Elford  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Dec.  4,  1812. 

Pope's  maxim  (if  it  is  his)  that  "  easy  writing  is  not  easily 
written  "  is  certainly  true  with  respect  to  what  is  intended 
for  the  world  as  composition  either  in  prose  or  verse,  but  is 
utterly  false  as  applied  to  familiar  letter-writing,  of  which 
his  own  letters — pretended  to  be  warm  from  the  brain,  but 
in  reality  polished  and  revised  for  publication — are  a  striking 
proof  Write  away,  then,  my  dear,  as  fast  as  you  can  drive 
your  quill,  and  abuse  Miss  Seward  as  much  as  you  please ; 
she  deserves  it  for  her  abuse  of  our  friend  Dr.  Johnson. 
Shall  I  tell  you  that  you  are  a  little  like  her  in  one  respect 
— that  is,  you  carry  your  censures  on  her  to  as  great  an  ex- 
tent as  she  does  hers  on  Dr.  Johnson ;  but  then  you  do  it  in 
the  proper  place  and  in  the  right  direction.  I  am  called  to 
breakfast,  and  when  I  begin  again  (an  interval  of  time  hav- 
ing passed)  I  shall  not  need  a  mark  of  jerkification  on  com- 
mencing a  new  subject. 

Dec.  5. — As  this  threatens  to  be  a  double  letter,  it  will 
wait  for  a  frank,  though  I  hope  not  long.  You  do  your- 
self but  justice  in  believing  that  you  are  in  no  danger  with 
me  of  being  charged  with  writing  Miss  -  Nonsense  about 
peace  (observe  Miss  is  spelt  with  a  double  s,  and  is  not  used 
as  in  misconduct,  misfortune,  etc.,  etc.),  but  still  I  must 
make  a  few  observations.  That  peace  in  the  abstract  is 
better  than  war  nobody  can  deny ;  in  the  same  way  as 
health  is  better  than  disease,  or  as  plenty  than  privation. 
But  what  are  the  great  trials  and  miseries  (by  great  I  mean 
extensive)  of  this  world  but  war,  pestilence,  and  famine? 
They  have  been  so  from  the  earliest  ages  of  history,  and, 
while  mankind  continues  as  they  are,  will  occur  to  the  latest. 
Nay,  according  to  the  course  and  construction  of  the  ani- 
mal world,  they  must  occur.    All  animals  but  men  have  some 


68  Uses  of  War. 

others  that  prey  on  them,  by  which  means  the  natural  ten- 
dency to  inordinate  increase  is  kept  within  due  bounds,  in 
the  manner  that  wars  keep  down  the  human  species.  All 
animated  nature  is  checked  also  by  the  other  two  causes — 
namely,  disease  and  want  of  food.  Now,  dreadful  as  I  allow 
wars  to  be,  and  dreadful  as  it  must  be  to  be  eaten  by  larger 
animals,  I  freely  confess  that  I  should  prefer  those  modes 
of  extinction  to  disease  and  famine.  The  history  of  China 
within  the  last  century  affords  a  striking  proof  of  the  effect 
of  the  absence  of  wars.  Since  the  Tartar  Conquest,  and  the 
establishment  of  the  dynasty  of  which  the  great  Emperor 
Cham-Hi  (I  believe  that  is  the  way  the  gentleman  spelled  his 
name)  was  the  founder,  the  population  has  been  very  little 
exhausted  by  wars;  but  what  has  been  the  consequence? 
That  several  times  (during  the  space  of  a  few  months'  con- 
tinuance each)  famine,  followed,  of  course,  by  pestilence, 
has  swept  off  as  many  millions  as  one  of  the  middle-sized 
states  of  Europe  contains. 

I  hope  you  will  not  suppose  me  to  be  hard-hearted;  in- 
deed, I  am  sure  you  will  not.  I  would  venture  to  argue  or 
illustrate  what  I  think  in  this  way  with  very  few  people  in- 
deed, because  it  would  be  mistaken.  War,  however,  is  a 
dreadful  evil,  although  our  insular  position  prevents  our 
knowing  much  of  the  miseries  of  it.  We  always  lose  our 
money,  and  sometimes  our  friends  ;  but  what  is  this  to  be- 
ing in  the  seat  of  war?  Let  us  pray  for  peace,  therefore, 
my  dear  little  friend,  but  let  us  at  the  same  time  not  forget 
to  thank  God  that  we  escape  the  pollutions  of  wars,  and  that 
the  nightingales  are  not  driven  from  the  groves  of  Bertram 
by  the  horrid  din  of  arms. 

Talking  of  arms  puts  me  naturally  in  mind  of  hands  (no 
jerk  here);  hands,  of  fingers;  and  fingers,  of  pen  and  ink, 
which  I  now  see  combined  before  me,  and  those  of  one  of 
their  results — namely,  your  good  mamma's  copy  of  your  ad- 
dress for  Drury  Lane.  Now,  I'll  be  very  candid.  If  I  had 
never  seen  anything  else  by  the  same  author,  I  should  have 
said,  "  This  lady  has  very  considerable  poetical  powers,"  but 
I  think  it  as  far  above  Lord  Byron's  as  many  of  your  own 
works  are  above  it ;  I  suppose  your  friend,  Mr.  Whitbread, 


Clarifsa  Harlowe.  69 

prefixed  the  peer's  in  order  to  wheedle  him  and  have  his 
support  in  the  new  Parliament,  upon  the  principle  of  all  pol- 
iticians— "rather  to  expend  their  means  in  buying  enemies 
than  rewarding  friends."  Now,  remember,  I  don't  attribute 
this  maxim  to  one  party  more  than  to  another. 

I  have  never  seen  the  volume  of  "  Rejected  Addresses," 
but  have  read  some  of  them  in  the  papers,  which  I  thought 
very  good  indeed.  I  am  sorry  the  author  has  outraged 
your  nice  feelings  respecting  your  name,*  although  not 
enough,  it  seems,  to  prevent  your  determination  to  keep  it. 
I  remember  to  have  heard  formerly  that  ladies  are  induced 
to  part  with  their  names  rather  by  love  than  fear.  By  the 
way,  I  am  in  the  train  of  reading  the  "  History  of  Clarissa," 
who  affords  a  notable  example  that  fear  is  not  the  effectual 
mode.  Pray  did  you  ever  go  through  that  work?  There 
is,  indeed,  tautology  of  sense — the  same  things  said  ten 
thousand  times  over.  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  your 
thoughts  of  that  work.  With  much  skipping,  I  shall  have 
finished  it  in  two  or  three  more  sessions.  Now  God  bless 
you,  my  dear  and  good  friend.  Write  to  me  soon.  Write 
me  long  letters,  and  never  read  them  over,  because  that 
would  be  more  than  lost  time.  Tell  me  all  that  happens. 
Let  me  know  who  is  coaxing  you  to  change  your  name. 
Are  you  to  be  a  Quartermaster-general  .-* 

Remember  me  most  kindly  to  your  papa  and  mamma. 
Tell  him  (I  like  to  have  a  little  crack  at  him  about  politics) 
that  I  fear  he  has  lost  ground  in  the  new  Parliament,  but  he 
may  perhaps  fetch  it  up  in  the  nexl,  with  which  consolation 
I  beg  to  comfort  him,  and  you  also,  you  dear  little  gray 
vixen,  in  which  words  there  is  a  deep  meaning. 

From  yours  affectionately,  W,  Elford. 

Sir  W.  Elford  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Bickham,  Dec.  23,  i8i3. 
Having  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  dinner,  and  being 
dressed  and  seated  in  my  own  room  (called  in  some  families 

*  He  gave  the  name  of  Mitford  to  a  fireman:  "  Whitford  and  Mit- 
ford, ply  your  pumps." 


70  Addison. 

the  lion's  den)  at  my  own  round  table,  with  my  own  pen 
and  ink  (which  it  is  death  for  any  one  to  touch),  I  resolve 
to  devote  it  to  my  own  dear  little  friend,  and  to  acknowl- 
edge the  receipt  of  her  letter  by  yesterday's  post. 

I  am  particularly  glad  that  you  have  given  up  your  cus- 
tom of  sending  your  publications  to  your  friends,  and  I  do 
assure  you  that  nothing  but  delicacy  prevented  me  hinting 
to  you  before  now  that  it  was  a  practice  that  you  had  very 
high  authority  for  avoiding — among  others  that  of  Addison, 
who  in  a  case  somewhat  similar,  when  he  got  into  office, 
was  prevented  from  remitting  a  great  number  of  fees  to 
his  friends  and  acquaintances  by  a  suggestion  that  a  great 
aggregate  loss  would  be  sustained,  while  each  individual 
gained  almost  nothing. 

I  meant  in  my  observations  to  make,  no  particular  refer- 
ence to  England  or  to  the  present  war,  whether  just  and 
necessary  or  unjust  and  unnecessary,  but  merely  to  state 
my  opinion  that  in  the  system  of  the  world  generally  there 
are  various  modes  designed  by  Providence  to  restrain  the 
inordinate  increase  of  animal  life  besides  natural  deaths,  and 
what  may  be  termed  accidents ;  and  that  this  regulation,  as 
applied  to  the  human  race,  consists  in  the  frequent  recur- 
rence of  wars  (which  we  learn  from  both  sacred  and  profane 
history  have  existed  from  the  earliest  ages  of  society  through- 
out the  world),  and,  where  those  have  for  times  been  occa- 
sionally wanting,  that  famine  and  its  concomitant  pestilence 
have  produced  the  same  effect.  I  instanced  China,  and 
the  excessive  famines  that  have  raged  there  within  the  past 
century,  within  which  no  wars  have  thinned  the  inhabitants, 
as  a  proof.     Do  I  now  make  myself  understood  ? 

I  am  doubtful  whether  the  opinion  of  the  world  is  so 
much  in  favor  of  Richardson's  talents  as  formerly.  It  ap- 
pears to  me  that  there  is  not  one  character  in  the  whole 
work  that  has  any  natural  trait  in  it,  or  any  marks  of  dis- 
tinction w'hich  it  required  any  considerable  talents  to  depict. 
Many  of  them  are  known  from  one  another  only  by  some 
peculiar  mode  of  expression  in  their  letters  or  conversations 
respectively.  There  is  no  mind  or  characteristic  feature 
portrayed,  and  no  more  skill  was  required  to  make  such  dis- 


Clarifsa  Harlowe.  71 

tinctions  than  a  painter  would  want,  who,  finding  a  family 
each  individual  of  which  always  wore  a  coat  of  a  certain 
color,  should  distinguish  their  portraits  by  the  color  of  their 
clothes,  instead  of  the  similarity  of  features.  Clarissa  is 
herself  the  only  interesting  character  of  the  whole  mass,  and 
is  on  the  whole  a  fine  one,  but  God  forbid  that  her  virtue  (as 
to  chastity)  should  ever  be  considered  as  of  a  superior  kind. 
What  were  her  temptations?  She  knew  her  lover  to  be  a 
man  of  free  conduct  respecting  women.  She  was  not  irra- 
tionally in  love  with  him,  and,  after  she  was  in  his  power, 
was,  by  the  peculiarity  of  her  situation  and  her  knowledge 
of  his  character,  put  most  eminently  on  her  guard.  Any 
woman  of  common  education  and  principles  would  have 
done  as  well  in  similar  circumstances.  I  have  one  positive 
fault  to  find  with  her,  which  shows  her  to  have  come  out  of 
the  same  mint  with  Sir  C.  Grandison — who  is  a  most  infer- 
nal prig,  and  ought  never  to  be  admitted  into  gentlemen's 
company,  nor  ladies'  either.  I  mean  a  seeming  conscious- 
ness, which  accompanies  all  she  says  or  does,  that  it  is  said 
and  done  better  than  other  people.  There  is  a  constant 
display,  scenes,  acting — in  short,  there  is  nothing  of  the  rest 
of  Nature.  With  regard  to  the  Harlowe  family,  they  are  all 
brutal  savages  or  contemptible  idiots.  Mr.  Richardson  may 
say  that  he  intended  them  so,  but  that  I  deny.  You  are 
told  indeed  that  they  were  fond  and  loving,  and  doting  on 
this  daughter  for  her  piety,  filial  love,  acquirements,  and  vir- 
tues generally ;  but  throughout  the  work  there  is  no  mark 
of  such  feelings.  .  ,  . 

Saturday. — As  I  have  an  opportunity  of  sending  this  off, 
I  shall  despatch  it  with  all  its  imperfections.  Let  me  hear 
from  you  soon.  I  shall  send  to  your  papa  some  time  or 
other  a  little  book  I  once  published,  as  soon  as  I  can  get  a 
copy  of  it.  It  is  on  the  subject  of  animals  and  vegetables, 
and  was  written  in  answer  to  a  man  who  wanted  to  revive 
the  doctrine  of  equivocal  generation.  I  suppose  it  is  more 
right  to  send  it  to  you. 

Yours  most  truly  and  affectionately,  W.  Elford. 


72  Waltzing. 

Sir  W.  Elford  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Bickham,  Dec.  21,  1813. 

As  no  one  is  less  a  theorist  or  hypothesis-builder  than  I 
am,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  it  is  only  very  lately, 
and  by  mere  accident,  I  have  made  the  following  important 
discovery — namely,  that  the  power  of  writing  letters  is  regu- 
lated altogether  by  the  writer's  distance  from  the  metropo- 
lis ;  that  a  person  who  lives  within  forty  miles,  for  instance, 
possesses  that  power  in  the  vast  disproportion  of  eleven  to 
two  beyond  one  who  lives  two  hundred  and  twenty  miles 
from  it,  and  so  on  ;  and  that  it  of  course  follows  that  while 
I  have  been  laboring  under  an  intolerable  burden  of  obliga- 
tion to  you  for  sending  me  two  letters  for  one,  you  have,  in 
fact,  been  under  the  highest  obligation  to  my  moderation  in 
not  insisting  on  receiving  more  than  five  to  one.  .  .  . 

I  am  happy  that  you  think  with  me  about  waltzing.  Have 
you  seen  Sir  H.  Englefield's  verses  ?  They  appear  to  me 
perfect  as  far  as  touching  forcibly  the  proper  points.  They 
are  supposed  to  be  indignantly  addressed  to  the  man  who 
is  found  waltzing  with  the  poet's  mistress: 

"  What !  the  girl  I  adore  by  another  embraced  ? 
What !  the  balm  of  her  breath  shall  another  man  taste  ? 
What !  pressed  in  the  dance  by  another  man's  knee  ? 
What !  panting  recline  on  another  than  me? 
Sir,  she's  yours ;  you  have  pressed  from  the  grape  its  fine  blue, 
From  the  rosebud  you've  shaken  the  tremulous  dew ; 
What  you've  touched  you  may  take.     Pretty  vvaltzer — adieu  !" 

Is  it  not  excellent?  Before  I  had  seen  this  I  had  written 
something  to  render  the  waltz  odious,  which  I  sent  to  a 
friend  in  town  to  get  inserted  in  some  newspaper ;  and  if  it 
should  be  printed,  I'll  refer  you  to  it.  Mine  pretends  to  be 
a  history  of  its  origin  (in  prose),  and  I  have  endeavored  to 
give  it  an  air  of  truth  ;  with  the  exception  of  a  few  names 
of  persons  and  places,  the  whole  is  sheer  invention.  I  wish 
all  good  people  would  lift  up  their  voices  against  the  intro- 
duction of  this  dance.  I  am  sure  it  will  never  be  generally 
tolerated  in  this  country,  unless   the  moral   feeling  of  the 


Epigram.  73 

community  has  undergone  a  change,  which  I  trust  is  not  yet 
the  case.     Now  adieu,  my  dear,  for  the  present. 

Now  I  am  come  to  Wednesday,  the  29th,  and  have  just  a 
frank  for  Saturday,  the  ist ;  and  so,  in  the  first  place,  I  beg 
leave  to  wish  you,  my  dear  and  fair  correspondent,  and  your 
papa  and  mamma,  a  happy  new  year,  and  many  happy  re- 
turns of  the  present  season,  etc.,  etc.,  which  is,  I  believe,  the 
proper  form  to  be  observed  on  such  occasions. 

I  have  not  before — that  is,  in  the  former  part  of  this  letter — 
observed  on  the  epigram  on  your  Scotch  judge,  which  I  like 
very  much,  although  it  is  founded  a  little  on  puns,  or,  at 
least,  a  certain  degree  on  playing  on  words.  I  knew  nothing 
of  your  humpback  being  a  Welshman — why  did  you  suppose 
I  knew  it  ?  I  will  write  out  an  epigram  for  you  on  a  Mr. 
Wise,  a  Devonshire  man  lately  appointed  consul-general  in 
Sweden,  who  is  anything  but  what  his  name  imports,  and 
who,  I  am  informed,  is  about  to  return  from  his  post  under 
the  sentence  of  incompetency  : 

"  In  pride  of  wealth  and  pomp  of  power  arrayed, 
Caligula  his  horse  a  consul  made ; 
More  monstrous  still,  Lord  Liverpool,  alas  ! 
Confers  that  mighty  honor  on  an  ass. 
Indignant  Rome  the  insult  heard  with  sighs, 
But  abject  Britain  calls  her  creature  VVise." 

If  I  was  wise  (worldly  wise)  I  should  leave  this  admirable 
jeu  (Tesprit  unremarked  on,  in  the  hope  that  you  might  sup- 
pose by  possibility  that  I  had  some  hand  in  it ;  but  I  can- 
not, even  for  the  high  bribe  of  your  good  opinion,  deck  my- 
self for  a  moment  with  another  man's  bays.  I  do  not  know 
the  author,  but  I  think  it  quite  perfect. 

What  do  you  think  about  peace  ?  I  consider  it  as  certain, 
and  if  you  and  I,  your  papa  and  mamma,  and  Lord  Liver- 
pool and  Mr.  Fox  and  Mr.  Pitt  were  but  now  sitting  down 
together,  I  could  convince  every  one  of  you  by  incontroverti- 
ble arguments  that  the  chances  of  a  peace  arising  out  of  the 
present  crisis  are  as  a  hundred  to  one  in  favor  of  it ;  and  I 
intend,  within  a  few  days,  to  write  down  those  reasons — to 
seal  them  up  in  the  presence  of  credible  witnesses ;  and  if 
they  are  well  founded,  and  demonstrate  a  proper  insight  and 

4 


74  New  Years  Day. 

view  of  the  different  interests,  objects,  and  motives  of  the 
various  parties  as  they  will  be  developed  during  the  negotia- 
tion, I  shall  send  them,  duly  attested,  to  the  Prince  Regent, 
and  demand  to  be  made  Prime-minister  out  of  hand — in 
which  case,  your  papa  being  duly  wigged,  shall  be  immedi- 
ately constituted  Metropolitan  of  All  England;  your  mamma 
be  Chief-justice  (you  have  heard  that  "  my  mother's  a  jus- 
tice of  peace "),  and  you  shall  be  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer and  Poet-laureate.  Don't  say,  therefore,  when  you 
see  what  I  have  done  for  you  and  yours,  that  men  when  they 
get  into  power  forsake  their  friends. 

Now  I  am  going  to  bid  you  adieu,  but  not  forever  (I  mean 
forever  only  till  Saturday),  as  I  hope  my  genius  will  be 
renovated  sufficiently  by  that  time  to  enable  me  to  fill  this 
page. 

New  Year's  day. — Last  night  was  New  Year's  day  to  me ; 
and,  if  you  can't  make  that  out,  you  must  know  that  I  was 
forced  to  play  a  rubber  of  whist  after  twelve,  after  which 
there  were  two  peremptory  rubbers,  which  brought  on  the 
hour  of  one  ;  when  there  being  but  four  of  us,  and  thinking 
it  was  not  right  to  part  just  at  that  particular  moment,  we 
played  our  final  peremptory,  so  that  I  did  not  get  to  bed  till 
past  two.  All  this  happened  at  the  "  Pope's  Head  "  in 
Plymouth,  from  which  I  know  you  will  infer  that  I  am  in 
favor  of  the  Catholic  claims. 

I  must  finish  my  paper,  and  have  room  for  very  little  more, 
but  that  little  I  cannot  find.  I  remember  in  an  epitaph 
written  by  a  Dr.  Greenwood  on  his  deceased  wife,  after 
enumerating  her  various  good  qualities  with  much  feeling 
and  pathoSj  he  proceeds  thus  : 

"  Now,  my  grief  for  this  dear  woman  is  so  very  sore 
That  I  really  can  write  but  four  lines  more." 

I  have  room  only  for  two,  which  must  be  dedicated  to 
wishing  you  all  the  joys  of  the  present  season,  and  assur- 
ances of  affectionate  regards  from  W.  Elford. 

You  owe  me  three  letters — 


Poetry  by  Sir  W.  Elford.  75 

To  Win.  Elford. 
One  letter  due  on  former  account. ,    i 
For  goods  now  sent 2 

P.S. — With  W.  E.'s  humble  respects  to  Miss  Mitford— 
hopes  no  offence  for  sending  in  the  bill,  as  is  usual  this 
Christmas-time. 

The  following  are  specimens  of  Sir  W.  Elford's  poetical 
productions  : 

On  Hearing  a  Young  Lady  Observe  that  "  Kissing  was  a  Fool- 
ish Thing,"  who,  on  being  asked  how  she  could  judge,  re- 
plied THAT  she   had  SEVERAL  BROTHERS   WITH  WHOM    SHE  WAS 

A  Great  Favorite. 

Never  did  love's  tumultuous  joys 

That  bosom  yet  inspire. 
If  by  a  brother's  mild  embrace 

You'd  guess  a  lover's  fire. 

Perhaps  ere  years,  ere  months,  are  flown 

Your  radiant  eyes  may  languish  ; 
Your  beating  heart,  your  trembling  frame, 

May  own  the  pleasing  anguish. 

Then  should  the  fond  and  favored  youth, 

As  earnest  of  his  bliss, 
Impart  on  his  dear  Laura's  lips 

A  pure  and  ardent  kiss, 

Would  you  those  chilling  words  repeat  ? 

Ah  no  !  I  know  too  well. 
And  though  I  guessed  your  altered  thoughts 

You  would  not  "  kiss  and  tell." 

Then  should  you,  Laura,  dare  to  say 

Your  thoughts  could  never  alter. 
Your  conscious  cheeks  would  tell  the  tate 

Your  trembling  tongue  would  falter. 

But  once  at  Hymen's  altar  bound, 

You'd  own  all  earthly  bliss 
(If  own  you  durst)  was  only  found 

In  the  pure  nuptial  kiss. 
Oct.  16,  1803.  W.  E. 


76  Poetry  by  Sir  W.  Elford. 


To  Miss  Treby  of  Goodamoor,  on  her  Desiring  the  Author 
TO  Write  some  Lines  on  a  Scroll  on  which  Others  of  her 
Friends  had  Written. 

In  ancient  lore,  we  learn,  Ithuriel's  spear 
Made  all,  when  touched,  in  their  true  form  appear. 
On  kindred  principles,  this  magic  scroll 
Draws  forth  the  deepest  secrets  of  the  soul ; 
The  hand,  whilst  resting  on  this  potent  spell. 
E'en  a  poetic  fiction  dare  not  tell. 
Truth  then  must  out,  or  else  I  would  have  told  ye 
That  young  and  old  with  apathy  behold  ye ; 
That  you  have  neither  winning  air  nor  smiling  eye, 
Nor  dimpled  cheek  with  hues  of  roseate  dye — 
All  this  I  would  have  told,  and  you  believed, 
For  thus  might  modest  merit  be  deceived. 
Feb.  13,  1808.  W.  E. 

Occasioned  by  Seeing  Mrs.  Siddons  Perform  Several  Charac- 
ters on  the  Stage  at  Plymouth. 

Far  from  the  busy  scenes  of  mirth  and  strife, 

In  listless  indolence  I  passed  my  life  ; 

Felt  neither  pains  nor  pleasures  in  excess, 

And  thought  that  apathy  was  happiness. 

But  Siddons  came,  and  at  her  magic  call 

The  wildest  passions  filled  my  ravished  soul; 

Sorrow  and  joy  alternately  prevail, 

Now  pity  melts,  and  terrors  now  assail. 

At  her  command,  with  jealousy  I  burn 

With  her  despair,  and  e'en  to  madness  turn. 

When  Love's  the  theme,  her  winning  accents  flow 

Soft  as  the  sea,  ere  winds  were  taught  to  blow; 

Her  sighs  I  hear,  her  melting  looks  I  view, 

And  my  fond  heart  allows  the  picture  true. 

Still  as  each  varying  passion  she  portrays. 

The  strong  impression  her  whole  frame  betrays ; 

Her  looks,  her  voice,  her  gestures  so  agree. 

Uniting  all  in  such  fine  harmony. 

That  from  her  voice  the  blind  her  looks  declare, 

And  in  her  sparkling  eyes  the  deaf  may  hear. 

To  thee,  O  Siddons,  now  I  call  in  vain  ; 

Give  me  repose  and  calmer  joys  again : 

In  vain  I  call — these  joys,  alas  !  now  fled. 

Have  left  tumultuous  passions  in  their  stead. 

So  o'er  the  heath  at  early  dawn  of  day 

The  traveller  winds  his  scarce  distinguished  way. 


Haydon.  77 

On  either  side  beholds,  with  brow  serene, 
The  dull,  unvarying  sameness  of  the  scene ; 
Nor  trees  nor  hedges  cross  his  languid  eye. 
And  floating  vapors  still  obscure  the  sky. 
Soon  from  the  hills  in  majesty  sublime 
The  glorious  orb  of  day  begins  to  climb ; 
At  first  he  tries,  with  half-averted  sight, 
The  painful  pleasure  of  the  new-born  light ; 
At  every  glance  around  new  objects  rise. 
Fresh  woods  and  rivers  meet  his  ravished  eyes ; 
And,  as  he  eager  contemplates  the  whole. 
Ten  thousand  new  ideas  fill  his  soul. 
What  though,  alas  !  the  sun's  declining  ray 
Shall  chase  those  charming  objects  far  away. 
Soon  with  another  morn  his  rays  again 
Shall  bless  the  traveller  and  illume  the  plain. 
Oh,  mayst  thou,  Siddons,  like  the  sun  return, 
And  with  new  ecstasies  our  bosoms  burn; 
Return  and  cheer  us  with  thy  genial  ray. 
Nor  let  a  night  too  long  succeed  our  happy  day. 

W.  E. 

Through  Sir  W.  Elford,  Miss  Mitford  became  acquainted 
with  Haydon.  The  artist  was  a  Plymouth  man,  and  Sir 
William  joined  another  Plymouth  banker  in  purchasing  his 
first  important  work,  "  The  Judgment  of  Solomon,"  for  three 
hundred  guineas.  Sir  William  told  Miss  Mitford  lo  go  and 
see  the  picture  then  on  view  in  London.  She  went  with  a 
friend,  but,  arriving  late  in  the  day,  was  refused  admission. 
A  silver  key,  however,  procured  entrance  to  the  room  whence 
all  had  departed,  except  a  bright,  dapper  little  man  in  a 
sailor's  jacket  and  white  trousers.  He  pointed  out  to  them 
the  best  position  for  seeing  the  picture.  It  was  Haydon 
himself,  who  afterwards  became  one  of  Miss  Mitford's  most 
constant  correspondents.  The  two  Landseers  and  Eastlake 
were  his  pupils;  but  he  was  ambitious,  and  persisted  in  paint- 
ing immense  historical  pieces,  for  which  there  was  little  or 
no  demand. 

R.  A.  Davenport  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Perry  Hill,  Sydenham,  Jan.  29,  1815. 

In  spite,  my  dear  friend,  of  your  obstinate,  detestable,  and 
pernicious  heresy  with  respect  to  the  Spaniards — a  heresy 


78  R.  A.  Davenport. 

fit  only  for  mad  Edinburgh  reviewers  and  mad  "Morning 
Chronicle  "  men — in  spite  of  this,  I  should  long  ere  now 
have  done  myself  the  pleasure  of  writing  to  you,  had  not 
various  circumstances  arrested  my  pen.  Imprimis,  I  have 
been  so  exceedingly  ill  as  to  entertain  hopes  that  I  should 
be  able  to  "  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil ;"  as,  however,  I  am 
fated  to  be  always  disappointed,  I  am  still  an  inhabitant  of 
this  best  of  all  possible  worlds.  In  the  next  place,  the  loss 
of  time  threw  a  heavy  burden  of  business  upon  my  shoulders. 
Thirdly,  I  have  encountered  several  severe  vexations.  I 
could  go  on  thus  through  a  ream  of  paper;  but  if  these 
reasons  for  having  been  silent  are  not  enough,  I  will  sooner 
appeal  to  your  mercy  than  give  any  more. 

But  why  do  I  talk  of  asking  you  for  mercy,  when  I  feel  so 
angry  as  to  be  hardly  disposed  to  display  any  myself?  I 
protest  that,  were  it  not  abominably  indecorous  to  think  of 
beating  a  lady,  I  should  have  more  than  a  month's  mind  to 
beat  you.  Yes,  you  are  a  libeller — an  inveterate,  shameful 
libeller.  Why,  Leigh  Hunt  has  had  two  months'  imprison- 
ment for  an  offence  not  a  tithe  of  that  which  you  have  com- 
mitted !  Think  of  this  and  reform.  Do  you  imagine  that  I 
will  allow  my  friends  to  be  caricatured  in  the  most  outra- 
geous manner?  You  have  with  malice  prepense  and  afore- 
thought, as  the  blessed  lawyers  say,  labored  to  make  me 
entertain  an  unfavorable  personal  idea  of  a  lady  for  whom  I 
have  the  sincerest  esteem.  But  all  your  trouble  is  thrown 
away,  for,  firstly,  I  do  not  believe  a  tittle  of  your  description ; 
and,  secondly,  were  every  tittle  of  that  description  true,  I 
should  still  esteem  and  admire  her.  I  flatter  myself  that 
some  day  or  other  I  shall  have  it  in  my  power  to  assure  her 
of  this  by  spoken  instead  of  written  words.  So  pray  leave  off 
gnawing  the  file.  To  tease  you  still  more,  I  shall  send  you 
a  sonnet  to  that  lady  which  I  composed  the  other  day: 

Sonnet  to  Mary  Russell  Mitford. 

Mary,  'tis  sweet  from  all  the  giddy  throng 

Retired  "at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are  still," 
To  hear  the  lone  and  plaintive  warbler  trill, 

By  melody  inspired,  the  liquid  song. 

'Tis  sweet,  reclined  the  woodland  shades  among, 


Poetry.  79 

To  list  from  Eol's  lyre  the  tones  that  fill 

The  breast  with  tenderness,  or  wildly  thrill, 
As  zephyr  breathes  the  magic  chords  along. 
But  sweeter  than  to  hear  the  night-bird  singing 

When  peace  reposes  on  the  moon-lit  plain, 
Or  tones  from  airy  lyre  of  Eol  ringing 

In  bonds  of  harmony  the  soul  that  chain, 
Oh,  sweeter  far,  diviner  pleasure  bringing, 

To  hear  thee,  Mary,  pour  thy  heavenly  strain ! 

R.  A.  D. 

Now,  I  will  defy  any  living  creature  to  say  that  there  is 
not  in  the  above  sonnet  at  least  four  fifths  of  a  line  which  de- 
serves to  be  praised.  Should  this  be  allowed,  and  it  only  be 
objected  that  all  the  rest  is  bad,  I  shall  declare  that  the  fault 
is  not  mine,  that  it  belongs  to  the  subject,  and  thus  syllo- 
gistically  will  I  prove  it.  The  soul  of  poetry  is  fiction ;  there 
is  no  fiction  in  my  sonnet;  ergo,  my  sonnet,  being  denied  a 
soul,  could  not  be  a  good  one.  If  I  am  not  sufficiently  in- 
trenched here  to  set  at  defiance  all  the  logical  hair-splitters 
in  Christendom,  why,  the  deuce  must  be  in  it ! 

How  does  your  second  volume  go  on  ?  I  hope  that  the 
genius  of  indolence  does  not  still  hold  you  in  his  fetters. 
We  are  all  ready  enough  to  put  on  those  fetters — at  least,  I 
can  answer  for  myself.  But  Spenser  says — speaking,  how- 
ever, on  quite  a  different  subject — 

"  Folly  it  were  in  any  being  free, 
To  covet  fetters,  golden  though  they  be." 

Positively,  I  must  insist  that  you  do  find  or  make  a  story — 
not  to  excuse  yourself,  but  to  fill  a  second  volume. 

Have  you  heard  that  I  am  to  encounter  a  rival  ?  It  is 
even  so.  There  are  certain  persons  at  Edinburgh  who,  I 
know  not  for  what  reason,  have  always  regarded  my  work 
with  an  evil  eye.  Long  ago,  these  gentry,  of  whose  names 
even  I  am  ignorant,  announced  a  volume,  which,  however, 
never  appeared.  They  are  now  going  to  publish  in  good 
earnest.  The  editor  is  Mr.  Hogg,  the  Ettrick  Shepherd, 
and  I  am  told  that  he  has  procured  pieces  from  Walter 
Scott  and  others  of  name  in  the  poetical  world.  He  means 
to  publish  a  volume  half-yearly,  and  his  plan  excludes,  I  am 
told,  everything  but  original  poetry.     I  should  never  have 


8o  Rival  Periodicals. 

dreamed  that  his  book  was  meant  in  direct  hostility  to  mine 
had  I  not  been  apprised  of  it  by  a  gentleman  of  Edinburgh, 
who  has  a  most  extensive  knowledge  of  the  Scottish  literati. 
As  long  as  they  do  not  personally  attack  me,  I  shall  neither 
strive  to  do  nor  even  wish  them  ill.  If  they  think  proper  to 
cry  me  down,  I  hope  to  show  them  that  I  have  something  of 
their  own  thistle  about  me. 

I  congratulate  you  sincerely  on  your  deliverance  from  the 
rhyming  family — "farthest  from  them  is  best."  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  they  are  not  gone  among  people  who  are  subject 
to  headache ! 

Present  my  kindest  regards  to  your  father  and  mother. 
Adieu,  my  dear  madam. 

I  am,  with  warmest  esteem, 

Your  obliged  and  affectionate  friend, 

R.  A.  Davenport. 

The  concluding  letters  of  this  chapter  give  us  a  last 
glimpse  of  Dr.  Mitford's  political  connections.  The  first  is 
from  Mr.  Perry,*  the  editor  of  the  celebrated  Whig  Morn- 
ing Chronicle.  From  1813  till  his  death  in  182 1,  Miss 
Mitford  spent  a  considerable  portion  of  every  year  on  a 
visit  at  his  residence,  Tavistock  House  "  where  they  do  the 
honors  of  London  to  great  perfection."  She  went  to  their 
box  at  the  opera,  and  met  at  their  parties  "all  that  was 
greatest  and  highest  in  mind  and  accomplishment,"  including 
Lord  Erskine,  Sir  S.  Romilly,  Dr.  Parr,  Brougham,  Moore, 
and  Barnes,  the  editor  of  the  Times. 

Mr.  Perry  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Strand,  Sept.  26,  1814. 

My  dear  Sir, — I  am  sure  you  and  your  dear  ladies  will 
be  delighted  to  hear  that  at  length  I  am  relieved  from  the 
torture  of  suspense.  I  have  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Perry,  dated 
Gibraltar  Bay,  August  i.  They  were  taken  prisoners  by  an 
Algerine  frigate  on  the  very  day  they  set  sail,  plundered  of 
all  provisions  and  water,  reduced  to  absolute  want,  not  suf- 
fered to  land  on  reaching  Algiers,  not  supplied  with  provi- 

*The  father  of  the  late  Sir  Erskine  Perry. 


Mrs.  Perry  s  Voyage.  8 1 

si'ons,  but  ordered  off  at  an  hour's  notice.  They  sailed  from 
there  on  the  17th  of  July,  were  becalmed  for  seven  days  in 
this  exhausted  state,  and  reached  Gibraltar  Bay  on  the  31st 
of  July.  There  they  are  condemned  to  perform  quarantine 
for  forty-two  days.  My  friend  Admiral  Fleming,  who  com- 
mands at  the  station,  gives  them  every  comfort,  and,  I  trust, 
will  be  able  to  send  them  home  in  a  ship  of  war.  My  wife 
says  they  have  passed  through  the  calamity  with  fortitude, 
and  that  under  happier  circumstances  the  voyage  would 
have  been  favorable  to  her  health.  She  has  suffered  much 
from  want  of  food,  and  they  are  all  reduced  by  debility. 
Pardon  my  extreme  brevity,  as  I  have  many  letters  to  write 
to  relieve  our  anxious  friends;  but  there  are  none  whose 
hearts  will  be  more  gladdened  than  your  own  and  my  most 
dear  and  affectionate  Miss  Mitford's.  Believe  me  all  to  be, 
Your  truly  grateful  friend,        J.  Perry. 

Mr.  Perry  was  a  brother-in-law  of  Porson,  and  at  his  house 
Miss  Mitford  became  intimate  with  the  stepdaughter  of  that 
celebrated  scholar  and  wit.  It  was  probably  from  her  that 
she  obtained  the  following  lines,  found  among  Miss  Mit- 
ford's papers,  and  entitled 

Charade  by  the  late  Professor  roRSON. 

My  first  is  the  nymph  I  adore, 

The  sum  of  her  charms  is  my  second ; 

I  was  going  to  call  it  my  third, 

But  I  counted  a  million  or  more. 

Till  I  found  they  could  never  be  reckoned ; 

So  I  quickly  discarded  the  word.* 

W.  A.  Madocks  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Thursday, 1816. 

My  dear  Sir, — 1,000,000,000,000  thanks  for  your  kind 
remembrance  of  me,  and  the  valuable  specimen  of  the  swin- 
ish multitude  which,  through  your  means,  Mr.  Haywood  has 
favored  me  with.  How  can  I  make  him  or  you  a  suitable 
return  ?    To  send  a  copy  of  Bacon  to  me,  so  well  versed  in 

*  Several  of  Person's  charades  may  be  found  in  Beloe's  "  Sexagono- 
rium." 

4* 


82  Sheridan. 

the  law  as  you  are  in  your  magisterial  capacity,  and  so  well 
grounded  as  you  are  in  the  principles  of  his  liberal  and  en- 
lightened philosophy,  would  be  superfluous.  I  must  be  con- 
tent, therefore,  to  remain  for  the  present,  at  least,  your 
grateful  debtor.  My  man  starts  to-morrow  at  four  o'clock 
to  be  in  Warwick  Lane  by  half-past,  to  await  the  arrival  of 
his  Boarship,  and  he  will  be  conducted  here  to  a  breakfast 
of  the  freshest  vegetables  and  purest  milk.  From  him,  no 
doubt,  will  spring  a  long  line  of  illustrious  successors,  much 
to  the  gratification  of  the  Christians  and  mortification  of  the 
Jews. 

I  have  sadly  regretted  being  prevented  from  attending 
poor  Sheridan's  funeral,  by  the  obligation  I  was  under  to  ac- 
cept the  invitation  of  my  constituents  t£>  dine  with  them  to 
celebrate  my  first  election. 

What  a  fame  {inonumentum  cere  perennius)  has  Sheridan 
left  behind  him  ! — that  of  having  written  the  best  comedy, 
and  delivered  the  best  oration  that  was  ever  produced  in  this 
eminent  country.  The  last  words  he  said  to  me  at  Cowes 
at  parting,  after  a  delightful  month  last  autumn,  were,  "  Do 
stop  one  day  more.  Upon  my  honor,  I'll  set  off  to-morrow. 
My  carriage  is  waiting  at  Portsmouth,  and  we  will  make  two 
days'  journey  of  it — we'll  jog  up  together 

*  In  gentle  conversation,  sweet  and  mild.' " 

My  testimony  to  Sheridan's  private  character  is  that  of  his 
being  a  most  amiable  and  full-hearted  man.  Glowing,  gen- 
erous, and  friendl}', 

"  If  to  his  lot  some  human  errors  fall, 
Sit  by  his  side  and  you'll  forget  them  all " — 

most  true  of  him  while  living;  and  now  we  shall  never  see 
him  more,  or  his  like  again. 

Most  sincerely  yours,  W.  A.  Madocks. 

Sheridan's  second  wife,  a  Miss  Ogle,  was  a  sister  of  Lady 
Dacre  and  cousin  of  Miss  Mitford. 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hofland.  83 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hofland. — Letters  from   Mrs.  Hofland. — Miss 
Mitford's  Tragedies. — Letters  from  Miss  Porden. — Letters 

FROM   p.  BaYLEY. 

Another  of  Miss  Mitford's  artistic  friends,  also  addicted, 
like  Haydon,  to  covering  yards  of  canvas  with  sacred  sub- 
jects "whether  people  buy  or  not,"  was  Mr.  Hofland.  He 
was  a  man  of  talent;  "he  talks  pictures  and  paints  poems." 
She  introduced  him  to  Sir  W.  Elford ;  but  his  wife  was  her 
especial  favorite.  This  lady  had  great  literary  productive- 
ness and  ability,  wrote  seventy  works,  mostly  novels,  and 
added  descriptions  to  her  husband's  engraved  sketches.  Miss 
Mitford  tells  her  that  "  the  pictures  will  get  fame  and  money, 
the  books  money  and  fame ;"  and  observes,  "  She  is  wom- 
anly to  her  fingers'  ends,  and  as  truth-telling  and  indepen- 
dent as  a  skylark."  She  was  a  correspondent  of  Miss  Edge- 
worth,  and  of  Miss  Mitford  from  her  early  years,  and  was 
with  the  latter  in  the  "deserted  great  house"  in  1818;*  but 
the  first  letter  we  have  from  her  is  dated  May  25,  1820. 

Mrs.  Hofland  to  Miss  Mitford. 

May  25,  1820. 

I  made  up  my  mind  not  to  write  even  to  dear  you  till  I 
had  with  my  own  eyes  seen  Haydon's  picture,  and  looked 
into  it  with  all  the  powers  of  eye,  mind,  and  heart  I  could 
muster.  I  have  done  so,  and,  after  two  full  hours  of  gazing, 
shutting  my  eyes,  thinking,  and  then  gazing  till  the  tears 
obscured  'em,  I  pronounce  that  "The  Christ"  is  admirable, 
sublime,  affecting,  and  precisely  what  a  Christian  desires  to 
own  as  his  Lord  and  Master;  the  God  he  adores;  the  Friend 

*  Bertram  House,  which  Dr.  Mitford  built  and  had  to  part  with  from 
pecuniary  embarrassment. 


84  Haydotis  Picture. 

he  trusts;  the  despised  One  it  is  his  pride  to  defend;  the 
glorious  One  it  is  his  honor  to  belong  to;  the  Man  who  suf- 
fered on  the  cross;  the  Judge  before  whose  eye  the  heavens 
shall  roll  away  and  the  sea  give  up  her  dead,  yet  whose  be- 
nignant voice  shall  say  to  the  trembling,  lowly  heart,  "  Come, 
ye  blessed  of  my  Father." 

There  were  a  great  many  people,  but  as  I  went  alone,  sat 
alone,  and  was  alone  with  the  picture  so  long  a  time  consid- 
ering it  in  every  point,  tracing  through  the  written  word  all 
the  succession  of  events,  designs,  and  (so  far  as  such  a 
worm  may  presume)  the  feelings  of  that  unfathomed  and 
unfathomable  ocean  of  goodness,  the  heart,  which  might  be 
supposed  to  act  upon  the  features,  and  impress  them  with 
character,  so  I  conclude  myself  more  mistress  of  this  mighty 
object  than  many  with  whom  it  is  a  subject  for  criticism  ;  and 
I  have  at  least  the  satisfaction  of  believing  that  I  know  it  as 
well  as  most  of  them,  who  have  had  far  better  opportunities 
of  studying  it;  but  mark,  I  gave  my  whole  attention  to  one 
object.  I  saw  much  beauty  in  the  whole,  very  much,  but  I 
was  only  fascinafted  by  the  great  object,  and  that  arose  out 
of  my  determination  of  examining  it;  "having  seen,  I  loved 
Him."  Now,  I  apprehend  this  is  a  proof  of  excellence,  for 
Raphael's  pictures,  I  am  told,  have  ever  this  effect — entre 
nous,  Raphael  never  painted  a  head  so  full  as  this — yet  I 
am  mortal  enough  to  wish  it  had  not  been  so  old,  and  that 
it  had  had  a  little  more  positive  beauty  in  it;  but  I  know 
myself  to  be  wrong  in  this,  for  incessant  thought  must  de- 
stroy mere  beauty  and  antedate  age.  There  is  a  woman 
that  will  be  seen  in  full  front  that  I  dislike  much;  it  is  ill- 
dressed,  looks  as  if  the  posture  (though  natural)  had  been 
drawn  from  a  lay-figure,  and  the  arms  are  so  evidently  a 
man's  arms  that  to  my  eye  they  are  quite  offensive.  They 
could  be  altered  with  the  greatest  ease;  how  I  did  long  to 
do  it  1  It  is  only  putting  flesh  over  that  part  just  below  the 
joint,  which  is  always  flat  in  a  man  with  evident  muscular 
strength,  but  round  in  a  woman,  unless  she  is  a  charwoman. 
The  whiteness,  too,  is  that  of  a  man's  arm  which  the  sun 
has  never  visited;  it  is  quite  distinct  from  the  lively  delicacy 
of  a  woman's  skin  in  the  same  part,  and  the  wrists  are  those 


Bertram  House.  85 

of  a  porter.  What  a  pity  he  had  not  a  lady  to  sit  to  him 
then  ! 

Mr.  Haydon  had  just  left  the  place,  which  I  was  sorry  for 
at  the  time  ;  but  I  am  not  sorry  now,  for  had  he  been  there  I 
could  never  have  held  such  "  high  converse  "  with  his  awful 
endearing  picture  as  I  did,  nor  have  so  saturated  my  mem- 
ory and  stamped  it  on  my  mmd  as  I  find  I  have.  I  must, 
however,  go  again  to  look  at  Wordsworth,  etc.,  etc.,  for 
though,  indeed,  I  saw  a  "goodly  company,"  and  they  gave 
a  magnificent  impression  as  of  a  triumph,  which  called  for 
my  Alleluia,  yet  I  have  not  acquaintance  with  any  individual 
save  the  woman  who  teased  me  with  her  arms.* 

I  rejoice,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  are  within  reach  of  your 
old  friends — the  walks  about  Bertram  House ;  for  there  is 
something  to  me  inexpressibly  dear  in  an  (?/^walk,  and  even 
the  charm  of  novelty  does  not  attract  me  so  much  in  any 
scene  as  the  delight  of  looking  on  that  which  I  have  looked 
on  before,  and  loved  before.  Flowers  and  shrubs  so  seen  are 
friends  revisiting  us,  and  claiming  our  wonted  smiles;  their 
beauty  is  friendship :  it  is  more — it  is  the  promise  of  im- 
mortality given  us  by  their  resurrection,  when  friends,  still 
fairer  and  infinitely  dearer,  will  bloom  around  us  to  part  no 
more.  So  feeling,  I  am  sorry  to  leave  our  walks  and  may- 
thorn  and  nightingales,  but,  I  believe,  in  about  a  month  we 
shall  go  to  Wells;  ad  interim  I  shall  have  business  to  go 
through  in  my  house,  which  you  will  be  able  to  sympathize 
in  after  a  removal.  But,  mind,  it  will  be  at  least  three  weeks 
before  we  go ;  so,  if  any  gale  of  Arabia  should  blow  you 
hitherward, //^/"^  we  are,  proud  and  happy  to  welcome  you,  as 
a  flower  promised  and  delayed  for  three  successive  springs. 

If  my  master  were  here,  he  would  unite  with  me  in  every 
kind  of  respectful  remembrance  to  Mrs.  Milford  and  the 
doctor,  and  all  sorts  and  shapes  of  good  wishes  to  your  dar- 
ling self.  Pray  do  not  forget  me  when  you  play  nurse  at 
Farley  Hall,  where  I  envy  your  calling.  I  hope  Mrs.  D.  is 
quite  well,  and  all  remains  of  Mr.  D.'s  accident  forgotten. 

*In  her  reply  to  this  letter,  Miss  Mitford  says,  "I  know  the  woman 
whose  arms  you  dislike — the  Canaanitish  woman,  the  giantess  in  front  of 
the  picture,  which  always  seemed  to  me  very  unpleasant." 


86  Laiv  Costs. 

My  Fred  *  tells  me  he  is  well ;  but,  as  he  is  very  busy  read- 
ing, I  have  many  fears  for  him.     Mothers  and  wives  are 
trembling  creatures  at  best.     Happy  are  the  single ! 
I  am,  at  all  events,  yours  most  affectionately, 

B.  HOFLAND. 

Between  the  time  of  writing  the  preceding  letter  and  the 
following,  Mrs.  Hofland's  life  was  saved — by  a  lawyer's  bill ! 
Mr.  Hofland  had  been  engaged  in  a  Chancery  suit,  which, 
though  gained,  afforded  no  pecuniary  advantage,  as  the  costs 
were  to  be  taken  from  the  property.  On  Mrs.  Hofland  hear- 
ing of  this  sad  termination  of  their  hopes,  she  was  greatly 
disappointed;  and,  just  as  she  was  about  mounting  on  the 
Twickenham  coach  to  return,  remembered  that  she  might 
save  sixpence  in  going  by  the  Richmond  stage,  and  withdrew 
her  foot.  The  coach  was  overturned  on  the  journey,  and  the 
woman  who  took  her  place  was  killed. 

Mrs.  Hofland  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Dec.  23,  1821. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  have  thought  oi you  continu- 
ally when  the  terrible  weight  of  my  own  affairs  allowed  me 
to  think  at  all ;  but  incessant  occupation  has  prevented 
my  reading,  and  even  seeking  up  the  books  necessary  to 
be  read.  When  I  tell  you  that  I  have  had  sickness  in  every 
branch  of  my  little  family  at  home,  and  that  he  who  is  my 
one  branch,  fruit,  and  blossom  has  been  ill  at  Cambridge,  and 
is  coming  home  to  be  nursed  as  soon  as  it  is  possible  to  re- 
move him,  you  will  see  at  once  how  impracticaWe  all  efforts 
of  mind  and  imagination  have  been  to  me. 

Yet  this  is  not  the  worst.  The  person  against  whom  we 
got  our  suit  in  the  spring  was  ordered  to  pay  the  money  into 
court  November  i.  He  has  not  paid,  will  not  pay;  but  will, 
by  some  of  those  nefarious  acts  every  day  practised,  contrive 
to  turn  bankrupt,  go  to  prison,  secrete  his  property,  and  not 
only  cheat  us  of  the  sum  we  sought,  but  throw  the  whole 
costs  on  Frederick.     So,  just  as  he  is  straining  every  nerve 

*  Mrs.  Hofland's  adopted  son. 


Pecuniary  Difficulties.  87 

in  attaining  knowledge,  he  is  suddenly  cut  short,  his  efforts 
paralyzed,  his  past  expenses  rendered  nugatory,  his  health, 
already  injured,  completely  destroyed,  and — but  I  cannot  go 
on.  I  could  open  my  veins  to  save  him,  but  it  is  not  in 
my  power  to  help  him.     I  am  at  times  almost  beside  myself. 

Mr.  H.  has  been  very  poorly,  which  is  no  wonder,  for  this 
unexpected  stroke  fell  along  with  the  difficulties  of  dark  days 
and  a  large  picture.  It  was  on  the  strength  of  having  the 
means  of  payment  fully  in  his  power  that  he  ventured  to  en- 
gage in  his  exhibition  expenses,  and  took  that  ready  cash 
which  is  now  called  for  a  thousand  ways,  and  which  was 
Frederick's,  who  wants  it  worst  of  all,  and  who,  unused  to 
grapple  with  the  world,  shrinks  into  agony  at  the  thought  of 
a  creditor.  Still  the  dear  creature  struggles  to  support  me, 
and  smiles  in  the  storm.  He  will  not  smile  long  on  earth ; 
but,  if  there  is  a  heaven,  he  will  rejoice  in  it  forever. 

When  he  comes  I  will  try  to  think  with  him,  for  he  is  very 
likely  to  think  of  a  character  and  story  for  you ;  for  his 
reading  is  very  extensive,  and  it  will  be  well  to  wean  him 
from  his  own  oppressive  state  of  feeling.  Most  thankful 
should  I  be  if  we  could  suggest  anything  that  would  give 
your  exquisite  powers  a  theme  to  work  on.  I  assure  you, 
uneasy  as  we  are  on  our  own  account,  both  H.  and  I  could 
think  of  nothing  last  night  but  your  vexatious  disappoint- 
ment about  "  Foscari." 

Give  our  best  regards  to  those  dear  parents,  who,  I  know, 
feel  more  for  you  than  you  do  for  yourself,  and  believe  me, 
my  v.ery  dear  friend,  most  truly  yours,  B.  Hofland. 

P.S. — Excuse  all  blunders.  You  are  well  aware  what 
state  my  spirits  are  in,  and  how  ill  able  I  am  to  write  at  all. 
Kejoice,  at  all  events,  that  you  are  not  Haydon's  wife. 

We  have  now  arrived  at  a  time  when,  owing  to  the  doctor's 
extravagance,  money  became  very  scarce  in  the  Mitford  cot- 
tage. As  a  writer  of  fugitive  poems  "  Missy  Mitford  "  had 
gained  some  little  reputation,  and  the  desirability  of  obtain- 
ing something  more  solid  than  praise  now  began  to  occupy 
her  thoughts.     The  public  owe  much  to  her  embarrassments. 


88  Mifs  Pordcn. 

and  Mr.  Harness  often  said  that  but  for  such  pressure  she 
would  have  published  very  little.  On  visiting  London  in 
1820,  she  saw  at  one  of  the  theatres  an  indifferent  tragedy 
performed,  the  author  of  which,  she  was  told,  received  three 
or  four  hundred  pounds.  This  led  to  her  entering  a  new 
and  more  ambitious  field.  The  first  play  she  wrote  was 
"  Fiesco,"  the  dialogue  of  which  "  put  salt  on  Mr.  Macrea- 
dy's  tail,"  but  did  not  catch  him ;  for  she  exclaims,  in  de- 
spair, "  Ah  !  I  shall  never  have  the  good  luck  to  be  damned  !" 

But  she  continued  to  work,  and  was  more  successful  in 
"Julian,"  "  Foscari,"  and  "Rienzi." 

Miss  Mitford  first  met  Miss  Porden  at  Mrs.  Vardill's 
house  when  staying  in  London  in  the  summer  of  1822.  By 
a  strange  coincidence,  Mr.  Whittaker  had  just  sent  her  Miss 
Porden's  "  Cceur  de  Lion  "  to  review.  Miss  Mitford  found 
her  very  pleasant,  and  her  conversation  earnest  and  natural, 
accompanied  with  a  considerable  amount  of  action.  Truth 
compels  her  to  add  that  she  was  plain,  but  this  reflection  she 
lightens  by  observing  that  she  never  saw  a  literary  lady,  ex- 
cept Jane  Porter,  who  might  not  have  served  "  as  a  scare- 
crow to  keep  birds  from  cherries." 

Eleanor  Anne  Porden  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Brighton,  Aug.  5,  1822. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  fear  you  have  thought  me 
very  negligent  and  ungrateful  in  not  replying  sooner  to  so 
kind  a  letter  as  your  last,  but  I  have  been  induced  to  delay 
writing  from  day  to  day,  first  because  I  expected  every  week 
to  see  your  sonnet  in  the  Literary  Gazette,  and,  secondly, 
because  we  were  for  nearly  a  fortnight  on  the  eve  of  an  excur- 
sion to  White  Knights,  and  I  waited  in  the  hope  of  telling 
you  that  we  should  intrude  upon  you  for  half  an  hour.  But, 
to  show  the  vanity  of  all  earthly  expectations,  the  editor  of 
the  Literary  Gazette  has  been  so  ungallant  to  us  both  as  to 
keep  the  sonnet  still  imprisoned  in  his  bureau  :  our  journey 
to  Berkshire  vanished  into  smoke,  and  my  letter  remained 
unwritten.  We  are  now  at  Brighton,  in  a  state  of  similar  un- 
certainty as  to  whether  we  shall  again  be  attracted  to  the 
Norman  coast  or  return  to  London ;  but  I  need  hardly  tell 


Romans,  Danes,  Saxons,  and  Normans.  89 

you  that  the  vestiges  of  our  ancestors  on  the  opposite  shore 
have  strong  charms  for  my  father.  It  has  been  oddly  re- 
marked that  England  has  been  at  the  mercy  of  every  invader; 
that  she  has  acknowledged  as  conquerors  the  Romans,  the 
Danes,  the  Saxons,  and  the  Normans ;  and  3'et  hers  is  the 
soil  in  which  freedom  has  taken  its  firmest  and  healthiest 
root,  and  her  sons  are  very  apt  to  believe  and  boast  her 
chalky  cliffs  inviolable.  Shall  I  suppose  that,  as  it  was  once 
fancifully  believed  of  Ireland,  not  only  is  no  noxious  reptile 
native  to  her  clime,  but  that  those  which  are  transported 
thither  either  perish  or  change  their  nature?  or  is  it  that  the 
invaders,  the  Romans  excepted,  have  found  the  conquered 
realm  so  fair  that  in  making  it  their  seat  of  empire  they  have 
adopted  its  interests  as  their  own  ?  At  present  her  security 
is  certainly  in  her  seas  and  wooden  walls  ;  for,  if  any  enemy 
were  once  upon  her  shores,  a  fair  and  fruitful  region  is  the 
easiest  conquered.  England  would  have  no  fastnesses, 
natural  or  artificial,  and  dreadful  must  be  the  waste  of  blood 
where  there  are  no  ramparts  but  those  of  flesh.  However, 
I  am  not  going  to  annoy  you  with  a  dissertation  on  a  subject 
which,  though  hackneyed  enough,  has  only  arisen  in  my  mind 
at  this  moment,  suggested,  I  suppose,  by  the  association  be- 
tween our  Norman  forefathers  and  the  chalky  cliffs  we 
stand  on. 

A  friend  of  mine  scolds  me  frequently  for  my  partiality  to 
the  rival  coast,  and  professes  himself  a  Saxon  with  almost 
as  much  pertinacity  as  Cedric  in  "  Ivanhoe."  He  asserts 
that  the  Normans,  cruel  and  despotic  as  they  were,  found 
the  Saxon  institutions  so  excellent  that  they  durst  not  pre- 
sume to  alter  them,  and  that  we  owe  to  them  almost  all  the 
advantages  of  our  boasted  Constitution.  This  I  will  in  a 
great  degree  admit,  and  yet,  as  far  as  regards  myself,  I  would 
rather  claim  a  Scandinavian  than  a  Teutonic  origin.  I  am 
inclined  to  trace  to  the  Romans  our  patriotism  and  public 
spirit,  perhaps  also  some  of  our  democratic  clamor.  To  the 
Saxons  I  allow  our  domestic  character,  with  the  coolness 
and  intrepidity  to  which  we  have  frequently  owed  so  much ; 
but  I  must  claim  for  the  Normans  the  spirit  of  chivalry  and 
of  mental  activity  which,  exercised  in  one  direction,  has  led 


go  Mifs  Porden. 

to  our  superiority  in  arts  and  science,  and  in  another  has 
enabled  us  to  combine  in  our  literature  the  romantic  and 
the  classic.  The  military  and  the  naval  character  we  have 
equally  inherited  from  all,  and  perhaps  no  three  races  could 
be  selected  better  qualified  to  counteract  the  defects  of  each 
other,  by  which  position  I  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  if 
we  are  not  super-excellent  it  is  our  own  fault,  and  we  de- 
serve a  double  punishment. 

I  have  had  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Niven,  which  breathes  all 
the  happiness  of  the  honeymoon,  which,  indeed,  ought  to 
shine  with  peculiar  brilliancy  in  the  romantic  scenery  of 
Scotland.  I  wonder  whether  his  majesty's  visit  to  Scotland 
vvill  tempt  the  bridal  pair  again  to  Edinburgh  ? 

Indeed,  you  pay  me  a  great  many  compliments  which  I 
do  not  deserve.  I  have,  I  believe,  a  clear  head  and  toler- 
able memory,  but  I  shall  never  rival  Mrs.  Carter  either  in 
diligence  or  attainments.  The  one  is  scarcely  to  be  reached 
without  the  other  ;  and,  were  I  to  attempt  such  application  as 
hers,  I  should  lose  health  and  memory  and  mind  altogether. 
I  believe  I  must  be  content,  like  the  sparrow,  to  pick  up 
what  falls  in  my  way,  provided  I  can  but  retain  the  power 
of  digesting  and  assimilating  it  afterwards. 

Our  present  correspondence  reminds  me  of  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  tale  "  L'Amie  Inconnue ;"  but  our  meeting  at  Mrs. 
Vardill's  has,  I  trust,  precluded  the  possibility  of  such  a 
denouement,  and  I  speculate  on  many  future  conversations 
with  you,  both  in  London  and  Berkshire.  Should  you  write 
before  my  return  to  London,  your  letter  will  either  follow 
me  or  await  me,  according  to  our  movements.  This  epistle, 
I  am  aware,  is  very  stupid,  for  it  has  met  with  so  many  in- 
terruptions that  the  beginning  of  a  sentence  had  to  seek  for 
its  conclusion  among  a  herd  of  other  fancies  which  had  been 
careering  through  my  brain  in  the  meantime.  My  next  will 
have  a  chance  of  being  more  amusing.  By-the-bye,  I  think 
that  our  habit  of  employing  the  plural  pronoun  to  designate 
papa  and  me  had  nearly  made  part  of  this  page  unintelligi- 
ble to  any  one  not  accustomed  to  our  regal  style.  Let  me 
therefore  say  that  my  father  begs  a  little  corner  in  your 
mind  till  he  can  claim  one  in  your  memory,  and  that  wt 


p.  Bay  ley.  91 

would  both  express  the  same  wish  to  your  father.     Does  he 
never  come  to  town,  and  do  you  scorn  to  make  more  than  a 
flying  visit  ?         Believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 
Yours  very  sincerely, 

Eleanor  Anne  Porden. 

P.S. — Are  your  labors  nearly  completed?  I  long  to  find 
that  you  have  fairly  beaten  Lord  Byron  out  of  the  field.  I 
have  not  read  his  "  Foscari,"  but  perhaps  yours  may  induce 
me  to  do  so. 

P.  Bayley  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Cumbeiland  Place,  Sept.  21,  1822. 

My  dear  Madam, — Accept  my  thankful  acknowledgments 
for  your  very  kind  inquiries  respecting  my  health,  which,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  has  rather  declined  since  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you.  But  hope  and  resolution  are  strong  in  me ; 
and  though  pain  makes  me  occasionally  break  out  into 
peevishness,  I  am,  on  the  whole,  resolved  to  bear  what  it 
pleases  Heaven  to  put  upon  me. 

I  cannot  but  regret  that  I  had  no  opportunity  of  making 
inquiries  relative  to  your  tragedy,  the  success  of  which  I 
hope  speedily  to  hail.  I  confess  I  am  somewhat  anxious  to 
know  how  you  have  been  able  to  restrain  the  flow  of  your 
poetry,  which  appears  to  me  copious  and  luxuriant,  within 
dramatic  bounds,  and  I  cannot  but  suspect  that  some  of 
your  most  favorite  passages  must  be  sacrificed  to  the  call  for 
"Action,  action,  nothing  but  action."  This  I  understand  to 
be  the  greenroom  language  of  the  day ;  and  I  sometimes 
amuse  myself  with  conjectures  about  the  lopping  and  prun- 
ing that  any  one  of  our  best  dramatists  would  be  obliged  to 
submit  to  were  he  to  appear  in  the  present  age.  All  that  I 
have  been  able  to  learn  from  Mr.  Kemble,  whom  my  ill- 
health  has  prevented  me  from  seeing  so  often  as  I  could 
wish,  is  that  he  thinks  very  highly  of  your  tragedy  ;  and,  if  I 
had  never  read  a  line  of  yours,  I  should  rest  confident  of 
your  success  on  his  opinion.  I  can  also  with  sincerity  ap- 
prove all  that  you  say  of  him  and  of  Mrs.  Kemble.  It  would 
be  no  easy  task  for  me  to  point  out  in  all  my  acquaintance 
two  individuals  of  whom  I  think  more  highly.     It  was  en- 


92  "  The  Museum." 

tirely  owing  to  Mr.  Kemble  that  I  ever  turned  my  thoughts 
to  writing  for  the  stage.  .  .  . 

I  have  by  me  a  paper  of  yours,  from  which  I  wish  to  strike 
out  a  passage  about  hares,  and  I  think  to  banish  a  portion 
of  the  poultry.  I  must  also  remark  that  however  a  cafs  foot 
may  be  thought  a  perfection  in  a  greyhound  in  Berkshire, 
my  father,  who  was  one  of  the  keenest  coursers  in  England, 
and  celebrated  in  his  part  of  the  world  for  his  matchless 
dogs,  would  never  allow  that  a  cat's  foot  was  proper  for  any- 
thing but  a  cat  or  a  cur.  A  long  foot  is  surely  more  springy 
and  elastic.  You  will,  perhaps,  think  me  very  saucy,  but  I 
assure  you  I  pique  myself  on  my  hereditary  knowledge  of 
the  subject.  And  I  ought  to  know  all  the  good  points  of 
a  greyhound,  for  I  painted  all  my  father's  best  dogs  for  him, 
and,  poor  as  my  performances  were,  they  pleased  him  as 
well  as  if  Snyders  himself  had  executed  them. 

Very  sincerely  yours,  P.  Bayley. 

P.  Bayley  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Cumberland  Place,  Saturday. 

My  dear  Madam, — I  gladly  avail  myself  of  every  oppor- 
tunity that  offers  of  writing  to  you,  though  at  present  I  am 
about  to  tease  you.  Your  letters  have  afforded  Mrs.  Bayley 
and  myself  so  much  real  pleasure  that  we  seem  to  have  lost 
something  essential  to  our  comfort,  now  that  we  have  been 
so  long  without  hearing  from  you. 

Mr.  Valpy  is  absolutely /^jj-^j'i-^^  by  a  notion  that  whatever 
is  done  in  the  Literary  Gazette  must  be  imitated  in  the 
Museum.  When  the  papers  called  "Wine  and  Walnuts" 
appeared  in  the  Gazette  he  cried  out  for  a  series  of  papers 
of  the  same  kind,  for  which  he  is  now  tormenting  one  of  our 
contributors.  Then  the  poetry  published  under  the  signa- 
ture L.  E.  L.  caught  him,  and  he  could  not  rest  for  incessant- 
ly crying  out,  "  We  must  get  Miss  Mitford  to  write  us  a  series 
of  poetry  in  the  manner  of  L.  E.  L."  It  is  in  vain  that  I  say, 
"  Let  Miss  Mitford  send  us  what  she  pleases ;  we  shall  be 
better  than  the  Gazette.  Our  poetry,  on  the  whole,  is  better 
than  that  of  the  Gazette.  Nothing  but  L.  E.  L.  will  go  down 
with  him. 


"  Orestes^  93 

Now,  my  dear  madam,  I  beg  you  to  send  us  just  what  you 
will,  only  send  us  something.  I  shall  run  no  hazard  of 
offending  against  truth  in  assuring  him  it  is  better  than  any- 
thing of  L.  E.  L.'s,  and  ygu  will  see  that  I  shall  presently 
contrive  to  jerk  that  out  of  him,  I  have  a  very  sincere  re- 
gard for  him,  but  really  at  times  he  tries  my  patience.  It  is 
"in  my  office"  to  request  that  you  will  oblige  us  with  some- 
thing for  the  first  week  in  February,  when  we  are  to  do  great 
things  ;  but  what  they  are  to  be  I  know  not.  For  my  poor 
self,  I  have  always  done  as  well  as  the  great  haste  I  am 
obliged  to  observe,  from  the  quantity  required  from  me,  has 
allowed.  And  unless  I  have  time  to  weigh  what  I  write,  I 
see  not  how  I  am  to  furnish  a  less  homely  commodity, 

Mr,  C,  Kemble  is  now  so  much  engaged  that  it  is  next  to 
an  impossibility  to  find  him  at  home,  and  my  health  does 
not  allow  me  to  make  the  experiment  with  the  hazard  of  a 
disappointment,  .  .  ,  Whatever  may  be  the  fate  of  "  Orestes," 
I  cannot  but  think  myself  extremely  fortunate  in  having 
prevailed  on  Mrs.  Kemble  to  substitute  that  play  for  the 
"  Charter  of  Seville,"  since  I  must  consider  the  chances  of 
success  are  very  much  in  favor  of  the  former.  It  is  resolved 
that  the  Furies  and  Nemesis  shall  be  retained.  I  hope  we 
shall  have  a  fine  overture  and  choruses  from  Mr,  Bishop, 
who  can  do  great  things  if  he  chooses  to  exert  himself  I 
had  an  idea  of  getting  a  proposal  for  an  overture,  chorus, 
and  songs  of  the  Furies  sent  to  Beethoven.  But  Mr,  C, 
though  not  dissentient,  thought  it  needless.  .  .  . 
Believe  me,  my  dear  madam. 

Always  most  sincerely  yours, 

P.  Bayley, 

In  reply  to  the  request  in  the  above  letter.  Miss  Mitford 
forwarded  the  following  short  poem,  recording  some  pleasant 
social  gathering : 

New  Year's  Eve.    To  a  Friend. 

Banquet  and  song  and  dance  and  revelry ! 
Auspicious  year,  born  in  so  fair  a  light 
Of  gayety  and  beauty !     Happy  night, 


94  Mortlake. 

Sacred  to  social  pleasure,  and  to  thee 
Its  dear  dispenser,  of  festivity 

The  festive  queen,  the  moving  spirit  bright  j 

Of  music  and  the  dance  and  all  delight 
The  gentler  mistress,  beautiful  and  free  ! 

O  happy  night !  and  O  succeeding  day. 
Far  happier  !  when,  'mid  converse  and  repose, 

Handel's  sweet  strains  came  sweetened ;  the  lay 
Divine  of  that  old  Florentine  arose, 

Dante,  and  genius  flung  his  torch-like  ray 
O'er  the  dark  tale  of  Ugolino's  woes. 

Miss  Porden  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Mortlake,  Oct.  ii,  1822. 
I  have  been  intending  for  some  days  to  reply  to  my  dear 
Miss  Mitford's  kind  letter,  but,  having  come  to  some  good 
friends  here  for  a  little  air  and  idleness,  I  have  been  so 
busy  doing  nothing  that  I  could  not  find  time  even  to  write 
a  letter.  Had  I  been  at  home,  where  I  have  five  hundred 
things  to  do  every  day,  and  that  must  be  done  lest  the  house 
should  stand  still,  I  should  have  had  plenty  of  leisure ;  but  I 
have  often  heard  my  dear  papa  remark  that  people  in  the 
country  who  have  nothing  to  do  have  never  time  to  do  any- 
thing, and  I  have  certainly  caught  the  infection.  You,  I 
suppose,  will  laugh  at  my  speaking  of  the  country  within 
ten  miles  of  London,  but  I  feel  that  even  this  distance  shuts 
me  as  completely  out  from  all  connection  with  home  and  its 
employments  as  a  much  greater  would  do ;  and  if  the  smoke 
of  the  metropolis  be  visible  like  a  cloud  in  the  eastern  dis- 
tance, the  Thames,  broad  and  blue,  flows  past  the  end  of  the 
garden  in  all  its  beauty,  while  boats  and  barges  glide  along 
its  surface  and  glitter  in  the  October  sun.  Have  you  ever 
noticed  the  different  color  of  sunlight  at  different  times  of 
the  year  and  day  ?  It  seems  to  be  as  bright  in  one  season 
as  the  other,  yet  the  sun  of  autumn  is  not  that  of  spring,  and 
I  think  that  a  person  waking  up  from  a  long  trance  would 
be  able  to  distinguish  them,  even  without  looking  to  the 
landscape.  Yesterday  we  were  on  the  water,  and  I  was  en- 
joying at  once  the  brilliancy  and  repose  of  the  scene.  At 
no  other  time  could  they  have  been  thus  united,  with  neither 
heat  to  oppress  nor  cold  to  annoy. 


Literary  "  Horrors."  95 

Next  week  will  find  me  at  home  and  hard  at  work  after 
these  my  holidays ;  consequently,  according  to  my  former 
reasoning,  both  able  and  willing  to  find  a  spare  hour  for  the 
perusal  of  your  tragedy.  I  hope  it  is  not  very  horrible,  for 
I  hate  the  horrors  which  have  been  so  much  in  vogue,  and 
have  never  read  either  "Melmoth"  or  "Frankenstein."  I 
believe  I  might  have  made  myself  much  more  popular  if  I 
could  get  over  a  certain  dislike  to  write  what  I  should  dis- 
like to  read ;  and,  though  it  may  be  presumption  to  attack 
celebrated  names  and  celebrated  passages,  I  must  own  that 
Virgil's  "  Envy  "  and  Spenser's  "  Cave  of  Error "  are  my 
aversion,  as  well  as  some  other  most  exquisitely  disgusting 
allegories.  Our  own  Milton,  I  think,  always  keeps  clear  of 
this  fault ;  and  I  cannot  believe,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Maturin  and 
Mr.  Wilson  and  Lord  Byron,  that  it  is  true  taste  which  tol- 
erates it.  Did  you  ever'  read  the  "  City  of  the  Plague  ?" 
If  you  have,  did  you  not  regret  that  so  many  passages,  such 
pure  poetry,  tenderness,  and  sublimity,  are  mixed  with  de- 
scriptions that  would  almost  prevent  one  from  ever  reopen- 
ing the  volume?  Plague  and  famine  are  fine  subjects  for 
the  Muse,  but  she  need  not  give  one  a  medical  detail  of 
their  physical  horrors.  The  French  have  observed  that 
there  is  one  sense  which  poets  are  never  permitted  to  offend, 
that  of  smell.  The  remark  is  of  one,  but  I  think  that  the 
other  senses  also  expect  some  degree  of  decorum  to  be  ob- 
served towards  them,  or  why  not  give  a  description  of  the 
cabbage-stalks  and  rotten  apples,  or  the  heads  and  necks 
and  other  appurtenances  of  poultry  which  sometimes  deco- 
rate a  dunghill?  I  might  almost  be  made  a  companion  for 
the  dogs  in  the  "  Siege  of  Corinth."  You  will  say  that  I  am 
always  catching  hold  of  some  out-of-the-way  subject,  and  let- 
ting it  run  away  with  me  to  the  end  of  my  paper.  In  truth, 
I  have  read  nothing  these  three  months  but  "  Strathallan," 
which  I  heard  much  of  when  it  came  out,  but  feel  disap- 
pointed in  now.  The  fact  is,  that  the  time  is  past  for  it. 
The  best  parts  of  it  are  those  which  describe  feelings  that 
during  the  late  war  came  home  to  the  bosoms  of  all.  Since 
the  peace,  or,  at  least,  since  her  most  precious  majesty's 
trial,  all  our  political  and  public  feelings  have  been  in  a 


96  Mr.  Bayleys  Illnefs. 

manner  asleep,  for  the  interest  taken  in  the  distresses  of 
the  Sister  Isle  was  of  a  different  kind  ;  and,  loyal  as  I  am,  I 
feel  no  enthusiasm  excited  in  me  by  the  visit  of  our  mon- 
arch to  the  rival  capitals  of  Erin  and  Caledonia.  Neither 
do  I  enter  into  the  housewifely  complaints  of  the  new  bread 
regulations,  for  I  think  they  will  be  found  an  improvement 
when  we  get  used  to  them.  No,  nor  even  at  the  maidenly 
sorrows  of  the  alterations  in  the  marriage  act ;  and  having 
got  to  this  climax,  which  may  as  well  be  the  termination  of 
a  letter  as  a  novel,  I  will  but  express  my  good  wishes  for 
the  health  and  happiness  of  you  and  those  dear  to  you,  and 
subscribe  myself,  Yours  affectionately, 

Eleanor  Anne  Porden. 

P.  EaYLEY  to  Miss  MiTFORD. 

Cumberland  House,  Oct.  26,  1822. 

My  dear  Madam, — Most  assuredly  I  should  have  written 
sooner  had  not  three  days  been  entirely  wrested  from  me 
by  increased  illness.  And  at  this  moment  I  am  so  weak 
from  loss  of  blood,  blisters,  and  from  the  plentiful  use  of 
that,  to  me,  of  all  medicines  the  most  lowering  and  distress- 
ing, digitalis,  that  I  can  just  sit  up  in  bed,  pretty  well  backed 
up  by  pillows,  while  I  write  this  letter.  I  hope  it  is  not 
ungrateful  in  me  to  postpone  my  thanks  for  the  service  you 
have  done  me  in  your  remarks  on  my  tragedy  until  I  have 
expressed  the  high  gratification  I  have  received  from  the 
perusal  of  "Foscari."  I  must  frankly  tell  you  that  the  play 
has  very  much  surprised  me.  I  gave  you  credit  for  a  great 
deal,  but  not  for  what  you  are  mistress  of  The  drama  is 
your  proper  walk,  and  I  pray  you  heartily  henceforth  to 
make  the  right  use  of  your  great  talents,  and  to  contribute 
something  to  the  solid,  permanent  literature  of  your  age.  .  .  . 

Will  you  be  so  indulgent  to  the  invalid  as  to  allow  him  to 
retain  this  treasure  for  a  few  days  still .''  Though  it  might  al- 
most "  create  a  soul  under  the  ribs  of  Death,"  I  have  been 
reduced  to  such  a  state  by  digitalis  that  (what  has  never 
occurred  to  me  before  under  the  severest  illness)  for  three 
days  I  have  been  almost  senseless,  and  of  course  could  not 
read.     This  very  day,  when,  as  I  lay  on  a  sofa,  Mrs.  Baylcy 


Mr.  Baylcys  Death.  97 

played  some  of  my  most  favorite  pieces  out  of  Mozart 
for  my  amusement,  I  was  so  torpid  that  for  a  time  I  did  not 
even  know  what  was  going  on.'  I  had  always  a  horror  of 
the  medicine  ;  its  effects  on  me  are  so  dreadful.  I  mean 
certainly  to  discontinue  it  for  a  time,  and  to-morrow  I  trust 
I  shall  be  able  to  read  the  "  Foscari,"  and  to  enjoy  it.  I 
cannot  but  laugh  at  my  solemn  remarks  on  your  "Agnes" 
when  I  look  back.  However,  I  cannot  regret  having  made 
them,  since  they  have  been  the  means  of  my  knowing  the 
candor  and  goodness  of  your  heart.  How  few  are  they 
who,  without  a  hundredth  part  of  your  talent,  would  have 
refrained  from  exclaiming  against  the  overweening  insolence 
of  the  obscure  editor  of  an  upstart  weekly  paper! 
Believe  me  ever,  my  dear  madam, 

Your  much  obliged,  P.  Bavley. 

The  next  letter  was  written  three  months  later  by  Mrs. 

Bay  ley. 

Cumberland  Place,  Jan.  13,  1823. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — You  have  doubtless  heard  of 
the  dreadful  event  of  last  Saturday  night — one  that  has  for- 
ever bereft  me  of  a  most  tenderly  beloved  husband,  whose 
loss  I  must  incessantly  deplore,  and  whose  memory  will  be 
cherished  by  me  with  fondest  remembrance.  I  venture  to 
communicate  with  you ;  it  relieves  my  overcharged  heart, 
ready  to  burst  with  the  violence  of  its  emotion.  But  the 
hope  of  a  reunion  in  another  world  gives  me  consolation, 
and,  for  the  sake  of  my  poor  orphans,  I  will  endeavor  to  bear 
up  under  this  excessive  weight  of  misery.  Knowing  the  de- 
light Mr,  Bayley  always  experienced  in  the  perusal  of  your 
letters,  I  had  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  reading  the  one  you 
last  addressed  to  him.  Your  predictions,  alas !  how  are 
they  verified  !  When  you  wrote  them,  the  dear  friend  (you 
so  kindly  called  him)  was  stretched  on  the  bed  of  death. 
He  often  said,  "Mary,  Miss  Mitford  and  you  7nust  meet; 
you  would  love  and  admire  her ;  I  should  wish  you  to  culti- 
vate her  acquaintance  and  friendship.  I  see  her  letters,  her 
kind  sympathy,  and  her  affectionate  wishes  are  as  gratifying 
to  you  as  to  myself," 

5 


98  Ki?id  Friends. 

{The  next  paragraph  commences  with  some  incoherent  expres- 
sions of  grief.)  Among  many  kind  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Kemble  are  foremost  in  their  endeavors  to  serve  me.  Yes- 
terday I  had  a  visit  from  the  latter,  with  ;^5o  from  the  Com- 
mittee of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  as  an  earnest  that  "  Ores- 
tes "  is  received  and  will  in  due  time  be  brought  out.  This 
will  be  a  most  anxious  event  to  me,  as  its  success  will  en- 
able me  to  publish  with  confidence  his  epic  poem.  Since 
his  writings  have  hitherto  appeared  under  a  feigned  name, 
Bayley  (as  a  poet)  would  not  excite  the  interest  necessary 
to  be  obtained. 

Let  me  thank  you,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  for  your  kind 
letters  to  my  husband;  they  cheered  him  in  the  hours  of 
pain  and  suffering,  and  may  heaven  bless  and  prosper  you. 
My  children  fancy  themselves  acquainted  with  you. 
Yours  most  truly  and  sincerely, 

Mary  Bayley. 


Letter  from  Mifs  Pordeii.  99 


CHAPTER  V. 

Letters  from  Miss  Porden  and  Joanna  Baillie. — Macready. — 
Letters  from  Macready  and  Mrs.  Franklin. 

The  following  letter  from  Miss  Porden  is  interesting  for 
her  allusion  to  Captain  (afterwards  Sir  John)  Franklin,  whom 
she  shortly  afterwards  married  : 

Berners  Street,  Nov.  22,  1822. 
I  am  afraid  my  dear  Miss  Mitford  will  not  think  that  I 
manifest  much  regret  at  her  having  withheld  from  me  the  ex- 
pected pleasure  of  reading  "  Foscari  "  by  the  length  of  time 
I  have  allowed  to  elapse  without  expressing  it.  The  truth 
is,  that  I  believe  you  judged  wisely  in  not  sending  it  at  this 
moment  (though  it  is  no  compliment  to  say  I  felt  disap- 
pointed), for  my  head  and  hands  have  both  been  full  of  em- 
ployment, various  in  its  nature,  it  is  true,  but  most  unpoeti- 
cal  in  every  variety.  I  wish  I  could  say  that  my  task  was 
ended,  or  that  I  was  out  of  this  house.  It  is  the  only  home 
I  have  ever  known,  and  I  feel  so  much  attached  to  it  as  to 
be  doubly  anxious  to  quit  it.  I  know  not  whether  you  will 
understand  this  feeling,  but  I  could  certainly  have  left  it 
with  much  less  pain  a  month  ago  than  now,  and  shall  feel 
more  in  leaving  it  a  month  hence.  However,  it  is  not  yet 
let,  and  I  must  await  the  consequence  of  two  very  pict- 
uresque affiches  with  which  Mrs.  Bates  has  decorated  the 
dining-room  windows.  In  the  meantime  my  business  seems 
rather  to  grow  than  diminish,  for  I  could  scarcely  have  imag- 
ined the  quantity  of  papers  which  must  be  looked  over  and 
sorted  by  myself,  besides  a  still  greater  portion  appertaining 
to  business,  which  come  under  the  department  of  executors. 
I  have,  however,  made  much  progress,  and  every  day  ad- 
vances my  preparations  for  flitting,  notwithstanding  that  a 
bad  cold  has  much  delayed  them. 


lOO  Franklin's  Arctic  Expedition. 

I  was  half  afraid  that  you  might  have  misunderstood  what 
I  said  about  the  prevailing  taste  for  horrors  ;  had  I  not  been 
certain  that  you  could  not  have  fallen  into  it,  I  should  assur- 
edly not  have  hazarded  my  opinion.  But  now  pray  do  let 
me  have  your  tragedy  when  you  can.  I  have  the  good 
habit  of  not  flattering,  of  not  expressing  an  interest  I  do  not 
feel,  but  I  have  also  the  bad  habit  of  often  not  expressing 
that  which  I  do  feel,  and  I  believe  that  those  who  half  know 
me  are  apt  to  be  offended,  because  I  cannot  get  my  tongue  to 
utter  to  their  face  what  I  can  say  glibly  enough  when  they 
are  not  present.  In  the  present  case  I  can  but  muster  two 
words.  I  a.m  proud  that  you  should  wish  me  to  read  "Fos- 
cari,"  and  I  expect  pleasure  in  reading  it. 

Mrs.  N has  been  in  town  lately,  but  stayed  a  very 

short  time.  She  appears  much  improved  both  in  health  and 
embonpoint.  Pray  do  you  know  him  1  I  was  somewhat  sur- 
prised to  be  welcomed  at  my  first  introduction  by  a  shake  of 
the  hand  (so  long  and  powerful  that  I  feared  my  arm  would 
have  deserted  the  socket),  followed  by  half  a  dozen  hearty 
slaps  on  the  back.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  is  a  very  worthy 
man,  and  that  he  thought  it  necessary  to  display  some  extra 
cordiality  in  the  matter  of  his  wife's  friend,  but  I  must  own 
that  I  expected  rather  more  polish  from  her  husband. 

We  have  lately  been  much  interested  in  the  return  of  our 
friend  Captain  Franklin  from  the  Arctic  Land  Expedition. 
It  was  more  than  two  years  since  any  news  had  been  re- 
ceived of  it,  and,  as  the  newspapers  will  have  informed  you, 
those  concerned  have  suffered  quite  sufficiently  to  justify  any 
alarm  of  their  friends.  We  have  enjoyed  the  almost  exclu- 
sive privilege  of  seeing  the  whole  of  the  drawings.  Those 
of  poor  Lieutenant  Hood  would  do  credit  to  any  professional 
artist  and  when  we  consider  their  number,  the  beauty  and 
delicacy  of  finishing,  combined  with  the  extreme  difficulties 
and  privations  under  which  they  were  executed,  they  become 
really  wonderful,  and  make  him  but  an  object  of  deeper  re- 
gret. If  he  had  died  from  the  hardships  which  the  expedi- 
tion endured,  or  even  if  an  earlier  murder  had  spared  him 
the  miseries  of  famine,  I  think  his  death  would  be  less  pain- 
ful.    BN'-the-bye,  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  the  story  of 


Joanna  Baillie.  loi 

the  Elbe  and  Dr,  Richardson's  tears.     Compliments  to  your 
father.     Write  soon  to 

Yours  sincerely,  Eleanor  Anne  Porden. 

Joanna  Baillie  was  one  of  those  whose  dramatic  power 
Miss  Mitford  especially  admired.  Writing  in  1812,  she  says, 
"Tragedy  must  now  fly  from  her  superb  arena  and  take 
shelter  in  the  pages  of  Shakespeare  and  the  bosom  of  Miss 
Baillie."* 

Joanna  Baillie  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Hampstead,  Oct.  7,  1822. 

My  dear  Madam, — I  was  told  some  time  since  by  Sir 
Archer  Croft  that  you  expressed  a  wish  to  have  a  copy  of 
my  verses  on  the  death  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  which  were 
printed,  not  published,  not  very  long  after  that  sad  event,  and 
I  am  quite  pleased  and  flattered  that  you  should  desire  it. 
I  therefore  beg  you  to  accept  the  only  two  remaining  copies, 
which,  after  searching  everywhere,  can  at  present  be  found. 
They  are  in  bad  condition,  having  been  long  in  some  dusty 
corner,  and  are  not  fit  to  be  presented.  The  verses  possess 
no  poetical  merit,  but  they  give  a  faithful  picture  of  that 
amiable,  extraordinary  man,  and  for  this  you  will  read  them 
with  interest. 

I  am  glad  that  our  friend  Lady  Croft  has  had  the  good 
fortune  to  find  herself  in  your  neighborhood,  and  that  by  her 
means  I  shall  sometimes  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  of 
you. 

I  hope,  when  you  come  to  town,  I  shall  have  some  oppor- 
tunity of  improving  the  acquaintance  that  I  was  so  glad  to 
make  last  spring  by  favor  of  our  mutual  friend  Lady  Dacre. 
It  will  make  me  very  happy  to  do  so. 
Believe  me,  my  dear  madam. 

Your  obliged  and  faithful  servant, 

Joanna  Baillie. 

*  In  another  place  Miss  Mitford  remarks  that  Miss  Baillie's  plays  were 
not  successful  on  the  stage.  Each  of  them  was  written  to  illustrate  a 
single  passion.     "  Her  writings  are  better  as  poems  than  as  plays." 


102  The  "■  Foscarir 

Eleanor  Anne  Porden  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Hastings,  Dec.  i8,  1822. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  should  not  have  detained 
your  "  Foscari "  so  long,  but  that  it  reached  me  in  the  very 
moment  when  I  was  quitting  London  on  a  visit  to  some 
friends  at  this  place,  and  I  therefore  brought  it  with  me  to 
peruse  in  the  quiet  of  a  watering-place  in  the  winter.  I  know 
not  whether  you  will  feel  it  a  compliment  that  I  was  much 
better  pleased  with  it  than  I  expected,  though  I  can  truly 
add  that  my  expectations  were  somewhat  highly  raised.  The 
interest  begins  at  once,  and  continues  throughout,  and  there 
are  a  thousand  little  touches  of  great  beauty,  although  (and 
this  in  a  drama  is  perhaps  the  best  praise)  there  is  no  one 
passage  on  which  I  can  fix  as  possessing  a  distinct  and  para- 
mount superiority.  I  believe  I  am  expressing  myself  very 
awkwardly,  for  my  ideas  are  a  little  embarrassed  by  bad  pens 
and  bad  ink;  but  I  mean  the  charm  of  your  imagery  arises 
from  its  being  appropriate  to  the  speaker  and  the  place. 
Lord  Byron's  brilliants  are  often  so  loosely  set  as  to  be  taken 
out  and  replaced  at  pleasure,  and  frequently  look  better  by 
themselves  than  where  he  had  meant  them  to  be.  In  your 
"  Foscari "  I  find,  also,  a  much  greater  strength  than  is  usual 
from  a  female  pen,  accompanied  with  many  a  lambent  spark 
of  genuine  heartfelt  feeling  (what  a  phrase  I  have  made  of 
it !),  which  none  but  a  woman  could  have  given.  With  man 
it  is  frequently  no  less  a  duty  than  a  habit  to  subdue  the  ex- 
pression of  feeling,  and  it  is  only  in  his  most  private 
moments  that  he  can  yield  to  it  with  propriety;  and,  when 
writing  for  the  public  eye,  he  is  very  apt  to  keep  the  same 
guard  upon  his  pen  as  upon  himself,  and  therefore  I  think  it 
is  that  woman  will  often  best  draw  a  manly  character,  and 
that  men  certainly  excel  in  their  portraits  of  women.  But 
really  I  am  so  stupid  this  morning  that  I  cannot  make  any- 
thing of  my  own  meaning,  and  must  not  expect  it  of  you. 

I  have  a  bad  cold,  and  have,  besides,  received  a  large 
packet  of  letters  full  of  the  most  heterogeneous  matter,  and 
all  requiring  immediate  answers,  so  that  my  head  is  a  little 
bewildered.    But,  in  one  word,  I  like  your  tragedy  very  much, 


'' Riejiziy  103 

and  can  suppose  your  present  conclusion  to  be  superior  to 
any  of  the  six  former  ones.  The  only  thing  I  could  wish  for 
would  be  a  single  word  of  mutual  forgiveness  between  Fran- 
cesco and  Cosmo.  Could  you  not  put  it  in  ?  I  assure  you 
I  shall  look  impatiently  for  the  moment  of  representation, 
and  will  do  all  that  in  me  lies  to  promote  its  success.  You 
may  readily  believe  I  am  flattered  about  Rienzi,  and  shall  at 
once  pop  down  what  occurs  to  me ;  you  must  not  introduce 
him  in  his  state  of  buffoonery,  for  it  would  be  too  like  Bru- 
tus, and  throws  great  difficulty  in  the  way  both  of  the  author 
and  actor,  but  the  circumstance  may  be  sufficiently  shown, 
and  the  comparison  made  in  the  first  scenes,  by  the  aston- 
ishment of  the  other  personages  at  his  change  of  character. 

Petrarch,  and  the  crowning  in  the  Capitol,  I  would  cer- 
tainly bring  in,  for  it  was  one  thing  which  made  me  fix  on 
the  subject  as  dramatic.     But  I  would  by  no  means  intro- 
duce  Laura.     Her   lover's   passion    was   too   ideal   in    its 
nature  to  suit  the  stage ;   and,  besides,  what  conversation 
could  be  imagined  between  them,  and  who  could  look  the 
character?    To  have  given  that  name  even  to  Miss  O'Neill 
would  have  been  robbing  it  of  a  certain  sacred  character  of 
phantom  beauty  with  which  the  poet's  fancy  has  invested  it. 
It  would  never  do  to  show  Laura  cutting  bread  and  butter 
for  her  many  children.     But  he  may  come  in  fresh  from  a 
distant  glimpse  of  her  form,  and,  in  short,  perhaps  you  will 
have  little  to  do  but  to  transpose  some  of  his  sonnets.     It  is 
his  high  political  character  which  will  give  you  most  trouble 
to  combine  with  the  sighs  of  his  visionary  passion.     By-the- 
bye,  he  did  not  arrive  at  Avignon  in  the  moment  of  her  death 
or  funeral.     That,  perhaps,  might  make  a  fine  scene,  if  it 
would  be  kept  from  appearing  an  imitation  of  "  Hamlet," 
which  I  think  it  might,  especially  as  being  an  historic  fact. 
I  think  you  have  named  all  the  authors  with  which  I  am  ac- 
quainted as  likely  to  assist  you,  but  I  am  deplorably  igno- 
rant of  Italy  at  that  time.     Gibbon  will  go  a  great  way,  Sis- 
mondi,  I  believe,  is  very  dull,  but,  I  dare  to  say,  contains  a 
great  deal.     I  should  think  the  first  volume  of  his  "  Litera- 
ture du  Midi  de  I'Europe  "  would  be  of  some  use  in  collateral 
information;  and,  at  any  rate,  that  is  amusing.     I  have  an  odd 


I04  Macready. 

volume  of  "Posies  de  Clotilde,"  which  you  shall  also  see. 
As  for  your  friend  with  her  "  sallow,  sublime  sort  of  Werter- 
faced  man,"  I  know  not  whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry.  I  have 
not  time  to  enter  into  what  I  think  of  Englishwomen  marry- 
ing foreigners,  but  the  idea  always  makes  me  almost  sick. 
I  would  even  almost  venture  to  say  that  either  head  or  heart 
must  have  a  fault  in  them ;  but  if  you  call  on  me  to  do  so,  I 
will  undertake  to  vindicate  myself  from  the  charge  of  un- 
charitableness  in  thinking  so.  Will  you  think  me  very  old- 
fashioned  for  wishing  you  and  all  you  love  "  A  merry 
Christmas  and  a  happy  new  year,"  with  many  to  follow 
them,  or  for  adding  the  hope  that  something  will  soon  bring 
you  to  London  and  your  sincere  friend, 

Eleanor  Anne  Porden. 

The  letters  of  Macready  to  Miss  Mitford  are  almost  en- 
tirely upon  business  connected  with  the  stage.  It  seems, 
however,  desirable  to  publish  them,  as  play-writing  consti- 
tuted no  small  part  of  Miss  Mitford's  literary  work;  and  she 
even  believed — with  the  usual  blindness  of  authors  about 
their  own  productions — that  her  principal  talent  lay  in  that 
direction,  Mr.  Talfourd  introduced  her  plays  to  Macready's 
notice,  and  Mrs.  Trollope  carried  on  the  negotiations,  and  so 
for  a  considerable  time  Miss  Mitford  only  knew  the  great 
tragedian  through  correspondence.  She  afterwards  says, 
"They,"  the  Macreadys,  brother  and  sister,  "are  very  fasci- 
nating people,  of  the  most  polished  and  delightful  manners." 

W.  C.  Macready  to  Miss  Mitford. 

March  17,  1823. 
My  dear  Madam, — Although  you  must  expect  from  the 
greatness  of  your  claim  upon  me  some  acknowledgment  of 
the  too  kind,  too  flattering  inscription  on  the  first  page  of 
"Julian,"  I  am  compelled  to  disappoint  you,  for  as  I  cannot 
say  what  I  ought  and  desire  from  an  inability  to  translate 
with  truth  my  feelings  from  my  heart  to  paper,  I  am  obliged 
to  request  that  you  will  permit  me  to  be  still  further  your 
debtor,  and  owe  to  your  indulgence  my  pardon,  as  I  am  al- 
ready so  deeply  indebted  for  my  unmeritod  praise  to  your 
generosity. 


"  Julian^  105 

Let  me,  however,  assure  you  that  my  recompense  is  to  me 
invaluable,  and  that  I  accept  with  gratitude  the  honor  you 
have  conferred  on  me,  not  as  a  remuneration  for  past  ser- 
vices, but  as  an  earnest  for  the  security  of  my  future  exertions. 

As  our  mutual  good  friend  Talfourd  is  absent,  will  you 
permit  me  to  instruct  you  in  a  few  of  the  necessary  ruses  of 
dramatic  authors?  Lose  no  time  in  sending  copies  of  your 
play,  with  a  note  in  each,  to  the  editors  of  the  different  prin- 
cipal papers  :  it  will  probably  be  the  means  of  making  them 
again  recur  to  it,  which  is,  of  all  things,  most  desirable. 

Depend  upon  it,  I  shall  neither  be  inactive  in  thought  or 
eifort  until  I  see  "Julian"  fairly  established,  which  I  am 
confidently  persuaded '\i  will  be.  Your  method  of  rewarding 
your  soldiers  "  would  make  women  fight "  in  all  the  secure 
anticipation  of  triumj^h. 

I  have  the  honor  to  subscribe  myself,  dear  madam,  your 
most  obliged  and  faithful  servant,  W.  C.  Macready. 

P.S. — Pray  urge  the  publisher  to  advertise  the  play  al- 
most constantly  though  this  and  the  next  (Passion)  week. 

Eleanor  Anne  Porden  to  Miss  Mitford. 

6  Upper  Portland  Place,  July  31,  1823. 
Mv  dear  Miss  Mitford, — "  Better  late  than  never"  is  an 
old  proverb,  and  so  I  will  not  allow  my  shame  for  not  having 
written  earlier  to  prevent  my  writing  to  you  now.  In  simple 
truth,  I  have  often  thought  of  you;  but  my  convalescence, 
though  in  many  respects  rapid  and  steady,  was  for  a  long 
time  not  such  as  to  allow  me  to  write  without  great  pain  and 
fatigue  from  the  posture  it  required;  and  even  now  a  letter 
is  a  task  which  I  put  off  from  hour  to  hour,  till  perhaps 
some  one  comes  in,  and  then  it  goes  by  till  the  morrow.  I 
know  not  what  is  come  to  me,  but  since  my  illness  I  likewise 
read  nothing,  and  have  no  pleasure  in  working.  I  hope  the 
use  of  my  faculties  will  return  to  me  by-and-by,  but  now  it 
is  sometimes  quite  an  effort  to  think — and  yet  I  am  well 
enough  recovered  in  other  respects.  If  you  have  heard 
what  is  about  to  happen  to  me,  you  perhaps  smile,  and 
ascribe   my  listlessness   to   that   cause,  but,  I  think,  very 

5* 


io6  Captain  Franklin. 

falsely,  and  believe  there  has  been  no  other  part  of  my  life 
in  which  a  prospect  of  the  same  event  would  not  have  in- 
duced very  different  feelings. 

When  you  next  come  to  London  I  shall  hope  to  introduce 
Captain  Franklin  to  you.  You  will  find  him  a  man  of  sense 
and  worth,  but  not  a  literary  man — or,  to  speak  more  cor- 
rectly, he  reads  and  thinks  much,  but  is  not  in  the  habit  of 
communicating  much  of  what  he  reads  and  thinks,  except 
where  he  is  very  intimate;  and  neither  his  late  journey  of 
three  years  and  a  half,  estranged  from  all  civilized  society, 
nor  the  being  made  a  lion  of,  has  contributed  to  wear  off  a 
natural  crust  of  reserve.  It  will,  however,  I  trust,  dissolve 
before  your  smiles.  If  not,  you  must  be  content  to  suppose, 
as  others  perhaps  have  done,  that  "  I  love  him  for  the  dan- 
gers he  has  passed." 

Is  it  not  curious,  we  are  to  reside  in  Devonshire  Street,  in 
the  very  house  where  I  was  born  !  I  do  not  pretend  to  recol- 
lect it,  having  left  it  when  nine  months  old,  but  I  have  always 
heard  it  spoken  of  as  peculiarly  comfortable  and  convenient ; 
and  I  trust  to  find  it  so  when  we  are  settled  in  it,  but  that 
will  not  be  yet,  as  we  are  off  on  a  summer  tour  first.  Not  to 
the  lakes  though,  albeit  that  is  the  general  course  of  a 
bridal  excursion.  Captain  Franklin  has  certainly  had 
enough  of  lakes,  both  frozen  and  unfrozen,  and  has  perhaps 
even  a  bit  of  hydrophobia — that  is,  he  prefers  the  land  of  his 
own  country,  much  of  which  he  has  not  seen,  to  the  water, 
which  he  knows  well  enough:  and  surely  we  may  find  enough 
of  romance  in  Dovedale  and  the  Peak. 

I  suppose  you  think  me  in  strange  humor ;  but  I  am  in 
and  out  of  spirits  twenty  times  an  hour,  emulating  the  moon, 
my  mistress;  or  the  water,  his  subject;  or,  if  you  like  it  bet- 
ter, emulating  this  strange  weather,  which  jumbles  March 
and  April  in  the  dog-days.  St.  Swithen  should  never  have 
a  candle  from  me,  unless  he  would  dry  up  some  of  his  show- 
ers.    He  may  be  called  the  Jupiter  Pluvius  of  England. 

I  have  not  seen  "Julian,"  for  I  have  not  yet  ventured  to 
any  public  place  ;  but  I  read  it,  and  with  much  pleasure.  I 
doubt,  however,  whether  I  do  not  prefer  your  "P'oscari." 
Are  you  at  work  on  "  Rienzi "  yet  ?  and  does  Ugo  Foscolo 


Scottish  Tales.  107 

help  you  with  Petrarch  ?  As  I  said  before,  I  have  read 
nothing,  but  I  mean  to  read  diligently  next  winter.  In 
short,  we  both  mean  to  do  so  much  next  winter  that  I  sup- 
pose spring  will  find  us  stuck  fast  in  the  middle. 

My  sister  has  got  a  fine  little  girl,  and  is  doing  extremely 
well.  Pray  remember  me  very  kindly  to  Dr.  Mitford,  and 
believe  me, 

Yours  affectionately,         Eleanor  Anne  Porden, 

In  the  next  letter  we  find  that  Miss  Porden  has  changed 
her  name. 

Eleanor  Anne  Franklin  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Devonshire  Street,  March  23,  1824. 
Mv  DEAR  Miss  Mitford, — Being  at  present  relieved  from 
part  of  my  ailment,  though  still  much  of  a  prisoner,  I  am  de- 
sirous of  reminding  my  friends,  as  frequently  as  may  be,  at 
once  of  my  existence  and  regard  for  them,  and  so  I  will  not 
pass  by  an  opportunity  of  answering  your  letter.  I  am  very 
sorry  for  the  illness  that  has  been  in  your  house  this  winter; 
but  if  your  mother  has  benefited  by  the  late  mild  weather  as 
much  as  I  have,  she  has  almost  ceased  to  be  an  invalid.  My 
cough  has  indeed  flown  off  most  agreeably ;  and,  were  not  I 
partly  in  Mrs.  Niven's  scrape,  I  might  trip  it  gayly.  As  it  is, 
my  coming  out  will  not  be  with  the  violets  and  butterflies, 
as  you  predict,  though  I  may  chance  to  pluck  a  few  of  the 
declining  roses;  and  in  the  meantime  am  content  to  play 
the  old  woman.  I  have  had  too  much  to  do  with  illness, 
during  many  years  of  my  life,  not  to  know  how  completely 
a  sick  charge  absorbs  one's  time  and  intellect ;  and  I  con- 
gratulate you  that,  in  spite  of  your  complaint  of  stupidity, 
your  own  health  does  not  appear  to  have  suffered  from  nurs- 
ing, and  you  have  yet  been  able  to  snatch  a  few  moments 
for  composition.  I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in  becoming 
acquainted  with  the  inhabitants  and  economy  of  j^«r  village, 
particularly  as  you  have  sketched  your  portraits  in  the  sun- 
shine. "The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor,"  which 
have  lately  poured  in  such  profusion  from  the  Scottish  press, 
I  thought  at  first  exquisitely  beautiful  and  pathetic,  and  the 


io8  Crabbe. 

tone  of  piety  which  pervaded  them  at  once  appeared  as 
a  national  characteristic,  and  was  sublime  in  its  simplicity. 
But  after  reading  a  succession  of  them  I  wearied  of  the 
beaut}',  the  pathos,  and  even  the  piety,  for  they  were  brought 
forward  too  often,  and  betrayed  too  much  of  stage  trick. 
Even  the  stage,  which  at  first  had  been  delightful,  ceased  to 
please,  when  its  repetition  proved  it  to  be  labored  and  af- 
fected. Salutary  as  it  may  be  to  visit  the  house  of  mourn- 
ing, or  to  read  occasionally  those  works  which  make  us 
acquainted  with  the  sorrows  and  sufferings  of  our  fellow- 
creatures,  from  which  we  ought  to  derive  the  double  lesson 
of  sympathy  in  their  trials,  and  cheerfulness  under  our  own, 
I  have  ever  been  of  opinion  that  the  brighter  side  of  human 
life  is  that  upon  which  it  benefits  us  to  look  most  frequently, 
and  that  we  all  of  us  need  most  constantly  to  be  reminded 
of  the  blessings  which  we  possess,  but  too  often  neglect  to 
enjoy.  The  ingratitude  which  led  to  disobedience  was  the 
earliest  failing  of  our  nature,  and  there  is  still  in  the  gayest 
hearts  a  chord  of  fretfulness  and  despondency  but  too  ready 
to  vibrate  at  every  trifle,  while  we  are  all  of  us  deficient  in 
what  I  consider  the  main  duty  of  gratitude. 

I  was  the  more  forcibly  led  into  these  reflections  from 
the  periods  at  which  two  or  three  of  the  works  alluded  to 
fell  into  my  hands,  and  which  convinced  me  that  they  were 
no  more  beneficial  reading  for  one  depressed  either  in  body 
or  mind  than  a  sentimental  novel  is  for  a  girl  of  sixteen  ; 
in  fact,  I  would  not  take  them  to  the  couch  of  an  invalid, 
the  place  where  works  of  fiction  are  most  resorted  to,  by 
those  at  least  whose  general  reading  is  not  confined  to 
trifling.  I  think  the  public  taste  is  not  in  any  danger  of 
relapsing  into  Arcadian  pastorals,  but  I  suspect  these  Cale- 
donian pastorals  to  be  almost  as  ideal.  Crabbe,  with  his 
occasional  coarseness  and  propensity  to  dwell  upon  the 
disgusting  "  where  there  is  no  need  of  such  vanit}',"  is  al- 
most the  only  one  who  has  dared  to  be  correct,  and  he  has 
given  us  some  beautiful  specimens  of  "  lights  "  as  well  as 
"shadows."  Washington  Irving,  too,  has  a  few  delightful 
fragments  of  equal  fidelity,  rendered  elegant  by  the  elegance 
of  his  own  mind.     You,  I  suspect,  will  remind  me  more  of 


Rev.  W.  Harne/s.  109 

him  than  any  of  the  others,  though  your  style  is  perhaps 
very  different.  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  the  "Foscari"  are 
to  make  their  appearance,  and  wish  I  could  have  been  of 
use  to  you  respecting  Mr.  Young ;  but  I  have  no  one  theat- 
rical connection  of  any  kind,  and  could  desire  for  your  sake 
that  you  had  no  need  to  trouble  yourself  about  the  caprices 
of  a  tribe  proverbially  fantastic  and  unmanageable.  How- 
ever, that  and  all  your  undertakings  shall  have  my  best 
wishes  and  support,  little  as  I  can  do  to  help,  for,  shut  up  as 
I  am,  I  not  only  cannot  add  my  unit  to  the  number  of  its 
friends  at  any  critical  moment,  but  I  see  too  few  persons  to 
aid  it  with  my  tongue,  as  might  have  been  at  other  times. 
By-the-bye,  have  you  read  "Alasco?"  I  have  not,  but  mean 
to  send  for  it.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  yet  so  dis- 
gusted with  Lord  Byron  as  to  have  lost  all  interest  in  his 
works,  but  I  am  informed  that  the  "  Deformed  Transformed" 
is  absolutely  a  waste  of  time  to  those  who  peruse  it,  being 
without  any  of  those  redeeming  flashes  of  genius,  and  touches 
of  true  poetry  and  feeling,  which  so  long  beguiled  the  public 
into  tolerating  more  than  it  ought.  Pray  do  you  know  any- 
thing of  Mr.  Harness?  Your  account  of  his  situation  when 
you  were  in  London  made  me  feel  a  strong  interest  respect- 
ing him,  but  he  has  not  called  since  my  marriage,  and  I 
know  not  how  he  is  now  circumstanced.  He  was  one  of 
those  whom  I  felt  more  of  a  friend  than  our  degree  of  inter- 
course seemed  to  account  for,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to 
lose  his  acquaintance ;  and,  though  he  be  a  dandy  parson, 
he  is  both  a  man  of  talent  and  sound  thinking. 

Pray  say  some  pretty  things  to  your  father  for  me ;  and, 
with  my  husband's  compliments,  believe  me, 

Yours  affectionately,         Eleanor  Anne  Franklin. 

W.  C.  Macready  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Mornington  Place,  April  25,  1824. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Not  knowing  when  our  friend 
Talfourd  may  leave  town,  and  being  a  most  uncertain  per- 
son as  to  my  letters,  I  rather  choose  to  send  you  this  brief 
acknowledgment  of  "  Rienzi,"  which  I  have  received  to 
read,  than  to  wait  to  give  a  detailed  opinion  of  "  Charles  " 


I  lo  "  Rienziy 

as  its  companion.  I  think  it  extremely  clever ;  some  scenes 
are  very  powerful,  and  capable  of  being  wrought  into  a  most 
effective  play.  I  have  told  Rignolds  so,  and  have  sent  it  to 
him;  but  though  I  am  nearly  certain  his  sentiments  will  not 
v-ary  much  from  mine,  yet  I  do  not  flatter  you  with  the  ex- 
pectation that  it  will  be  produced  this  season  at  Drury 
Lane,  nor  indeed  was  it  practicable,  should  I  recommend 
the  step.  I  shall  have  some  conversation  with  Talfourd 
upon  it  when  I  see  him,  and  I  dare  say  we  shall  agree  in  our 
views.  My  sister  desires  me  to  say,  with  her  love,  that  she 
has  received  your  note,  which  in  a  day  or  two  she  will 
answer.  Believe  me,  my  dear  madam, 

Yours  most  truly, 

W.  C.  Macready. 

Mrs.  Franklin  to  Miss  Mitford,  Three-Mile  Cross,  near 
Reading. 

Devonshire  Street,  May  19, 1824. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Your  first  note  and  your  kind 
present  reached  me  about  the  end  of  last  week,  and  I  did 
not  acknowledge  them  immediately,  because  I  wished  first 
to  read  at  least  a  part  of  the  little  book.  I  have  since  done 
so,  and  with  as  much  pleasure  as  I  can  at  present  take  in 
anything  of  the  kind  ;  but  ever  since  my  last  year's  illness 
reading  has  been  so  great  a  fatigue  to  me  that  my  mind 
continually  wanders  from  the  sense.  How  much  leisure 
should  I  otherwise  have  had  this  winter!  whereas  the  whole 
amount  of  new  ideas  acquired  since  May  last  is  not  more 
than  one  moon  should  have  furnished. 

The  first  thing  which  struck  me  in  your  essays  was  the 
exact  accordance  between  your  printed  and  epistolary  style. 
Are  you  aware  how  very  little  the  idea  of  writing  for  the 
public  changes  your  mode  of  expression  ?  Some  of  your 
sketches  I  like  very  much.  "  Hannah  "  I  had  read  before, 
as  well  as  the  "Talking  Lady,"  with  whose  portrait  I  was 
particularly  struck,  as  she  had  left  me  about  an  hour  pre- 
vious to  its  falling  into  my  hands.  You  have  not  done  her 
justice  in  one  or  two  particulars,  for,  by  some  means  or 
other,  she  does  contrive  to  read  a  good  deal  (aloud,  I  be- 


"  Our  Village y  1 1 1 

lieve,  always),  and  even  writes  very  respectable  verses.  A 
friend  of  mine  was  greatly  entertained  at  the  change  which 
once  took  place  in  her  from  a  temporary  loss  of  voice — a 
hint  for  your  next  edition.  "Lucy"  also  is  no  stranger  to 
me,  for  she  lived  thirteen  years  with  a  near  neighbor,  but  I 
believe  her  marriage  did  not  turn  out  well.  I  also  seem  to 
remember  your  "  Two  Maiden  Sisters,"  and  wish  I  had 
been  at  the  cricket  match,  though  I  prefer  fair  weather  to 
foul  on  such  occasions.  And  now  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
have  a  presentiment  that  you  will  be  quizzed  for  some  of 
your  "  Country  Walks."  I  should  have  enjoyed  them  as 
much  as  yourself,  but  then  I  thought  there  did  not  exist 
another  such  grown-up  baby  for  violets  and  primroses,  haw- 
thorns and  wood-anemones,  not  to  speak  of  the  narcissus, 
with  its  beautiful  pheasant's  eye  in  the  centre,  and  the  lily 
of  the  valley.  But  half  your  readers,  whose  botanical  ex- 
cursions are  limited  by  the  conservatory, "  will  but  hear  and 
smile." 

Your  remarks  on  Lord  Byron  had  peculiar  force  so  soon 
after  the  news  of  his  death,  which  could  not  have  reached 
you.  That  intelligence  came  across  me  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, or  the  shock  of  an  earthquake.  "  God  forgive  him  all 
the  mischief  he  has  done,"  was  my  first  and  involuntary  ex- 
clamation. I  wonder  much  in  what  tone  and  temper  of 
mind  he  really  died.  He  is  a  strong  example  of  how  much 
good  or  evil  may  be  done  in  a  very  short  life.  His  talents 
had  raised  him  to  a  height  from  which  no  one  but  himself 
could  have  degraded  him,  yet  more  fallen  than  he  has  been 
lately  he  could  scarcely  be.  I  have  heard  many  express 
the  wish  that  he  had  lived  to  retrieve  his  character  and 
change  his  opinions  for  his  own  sake,  and  for  the  example  to 
society ;  but  I  had  no  hope  that  this  would  be  the  case. 
We  have  had  many  libertines,  misanthropes,  infidels,  much 
of  perverted  reason  and  prostituted  talent,  but  the  deep  and 
fiend-like  spirit  of  revenge  and  hatred,  mingling  as  it  does 
with  passages  of  the  most  exalted  poetry  and  genuine  feel- 
ing, with  the  noblest  sentiments  expressed  with  a  sublimity 
that  makes  one  feel  proud  of  our  species,  has  a  character 
of  insanity  which  renders  me  confident  that,  to  whatever  new 


112  Lord  Byron. 

objects  he  might  have  directed  his  energies,  he  never  could 
have  made  a  good  or  rational  being.  I  have  no  more  idea 
of  moral  responsibility  as  attached  to  his  actions  than  to 
those  of  a  maniac  or  an  infant.  One  thing  I  am  glad  of. 
Murray  has  destroyed  his  memoirs,  a  sacrifice  of  nearly  three 
thousand  pounds ;  but  I  should  think  there  is  little  doubt 
that  the  family  will  indemnify  him.  On  inspection  they  were 
so  disgraceful  in  every  way  that  they  could  not  be  published, 
either  on  his  account  or  that  of  the  readers.  A  friend  of 
mine  who  was  at  Naples  when  he  gave  them  to  Moore  (a 
whole  sackful  of  detached  papers),  and  who  read  them  in  the 
carriage  as  they  afterwards  travelled  through  Italy  together, 
told  me  at  the  time  that,  if  ever  they  met  the  public  eye,  it 
must  be  with  such  changes  and  curtailments  as  would  almost 
destroy  their  authenticity.  No  one  whom  he  ever  met,  if  but 
once  and  in  the  most  casual  manner,  seems  to  have  escaped 
vituperation  in  his  black  journal,  and  his  pen  was  always 
dipped  in  the  deepest  gall  when  writing  of  those  who  were 
at  the  moment  his  greatest  intimates  —  Hobhouse,  for  in- 
stance. That  any  man  should  be  capable  of  so  doing,  and, 
above  all,  should  contemplate  the  idea  of  so  exhibiting  him- 
self to  the  public,  is  surely,  as  I  said  before,  a  strong  evi- 
dence of  insanity.  The  taint  has  been  in  his  family  for 
several  generations ;  let  us  hope  that  it  expires  with  him.  I 
have  still  much  to  say,  and  have  written  a  long  letter  with- 
out a  word  of  my  husband,  or  his  expedition,  or  my  little 
monkey  that  is  to  be.  NHtnporte,  you  will  say  perchance ;  so 
farewell.  Yours  affectionately, 

Eleanor  Anne  Franklin. 

P.S. — I  have  seen  no  public  notice  of  your  book,  except 
the  advertisement  a  fortnight  since.  If  I  meet  with  any  re- 
view of  it,  I  will  let  you  know;  though,  in  truth,  I  think  you 
will  hear  of  me  first  through  the  newspapers. 

Mrs.  Franklin  to  Miss  Mitford. 
Vale  Cottage,  Tunbridge  Wells,  Monday,  Sept.  6,  1824. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  think  you  agreed  to  excuse 
apologies,  and  indeed  I  must  tell  so  nearly  the  old  tale  over 
asfain  that  I  am  glad  to  commence  with  the  assurance  that 


Ttinbridge  Wells.  113 

the  excellent  air  of  this  place,  and  the  kind  care  of  my  hus- 
band and  friends,  are  beginning  to  restore  me  to  my  former 
self,  and  that  I  even  venture  to  anticipate  the  time  when  I 
may  once  more  write  without  pain.  I  am  astonished  at  the 
change  which  has  been  wrought  in  me  by  a  fortnight's  stay 
at  this  most  quiet  of  watering-places,  where,  in  spite  of  the 
rank  and  fashion  with  which  it  is  crowded,  the  country  is  as 
rural  and  the  denizens  as  independent  as  in  your  own  vil- 
lage. Indeed,  I  suspect  the  visitants  who  resort  here  are  of 
too  high  a  class  to  derive  much  pleasure  from  the  ordinary 
routine  of  circulating-libraries  and  public  walks,  and  are  too 
happy  to  escape  from  the  gayeties  of  London,  or  their  own 
country-seats,  to  gain  a  stock  of  health  against  the  winter  by 
returning  to  the  early  hours  of  their  fathers  and  enjoying 
their  country  rambles  in  perfect  liberty.  Of  society  there  is 
plenty,  but  it  is  entirely  without  form,  and  an  early  dinner 
renders  tea  a  welcome  and  substantial  meal,  towards  which 
I  feel  certain  longings  at  the  present  moment.  As  for  us, 
we  walk,  ride,  read  novels,  and  nurse  little  Miss  Nelly,  who 
has  now  completed  her  third  month,  and,  not  having  known 
either  illness  or  drawback  of  any  kind,  is  as  fat  and  funny  as 
possible.  It  would  do  your  heart  good  to  see  her  papa 
nurse  her;  he  seems  to  enjoy  it  so  completely.  .  .  . 

If  I  had  not  again  given  you  some  excuse  by  making  the 
inquiry,  I  could  quiz  you  heartily  for  having  told  me  in  three 
successive  letters  of  Mr.  Harness's  chapel  at  Hampstead. 
I  understand  he  now  lives  a  very  retired  life,  which  makes 
me  doubly  anxious  to  meet  with  him  and  offer  him  a  corner 
at  our  hearth  or  board  whenever  he  may  feel  himself  dis- 
posed to  use  the  freedom  of  a  friend.  I  alwa3's  liked  him, 
but  while  he  was  so  much  in  high  society  should  hardly  have 
ventured  to  invite  him  thus  familiarly,  and  in  a  party  I  never 
thought  he  appeared  to  advantage.  I  am  sure  my  husband 
would  be  as  ready  to  welcome  him  as  I,  and  I  can  say  the 
same  of  your  father  and  yourself  whenever  you  revisit  Lon- 
don. In  the  meantime  I  hope  this  fine  weather  has  quite 
restored  your  mother's  health,  that  your  book  prospers,  and 
that  you  will  write  soon  to  Yours,  very  sincerely, 

Eleanor  Anne  Franklin. 


1 14  Tragedies. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Miss  Mitford's  Tragedies.  —  Negotiations  with  Macready. — 
Mrs.  Trollope's  Assistance. — Letieks  from  C.  Kemble,  Dr. 
Milman,  and  Mrs.  Hemans. 

In  1822  Miss  Mitford  wrote  that  she  was  "the  least  bit 
in  love  with  Charles  Kemble,  because  he  was  going  to  bring 
out  her  first  play, '  Julian.'"  It  was  performed  successfully 
in  1823  at  Covent  Garden,  with  Macready  as  the  principal 
character,  and  Miss  Mitford  was  encouraged  to  persevere  in 
the  drama  by  Sir  William  Elford,  Serjeant  Talfourd,  Mr. 
Harness,  and  by  her  own  predilections.  But,  notwithstand- 
ing the  merits  of  her  productions,  she  had  great  difficulty  in 
obtaining  their  acceptance  either  at  Drury  Lane  or  Covent 
Garden.  She  was,  as  she  says,  thrown  about  like  a  cricket- 
ball  between  Kemble  and  Macready,  and  an  unpleasant  mis- 
understanding arose  with  the  latter  about  "  Rienzi,"  He 
seems  to  have  been  anxious  to  oblige  her,  and  wrote  as 
follows : 

Mr.  Macready  to  Miss  Mitford. 

10  Conduit  Street,  Dec.  7. 

Mr.  Macready  presents  his  compliments  to  Miss  Mitford ; 
begs  to  inform  her  that  he  has  presented  the  play  of 
"Rienzi,"  with  his  own  opinion  of  its  merits;  that  Mr. 
EUiston  thinks  the  play  "possesses  great  merit,"  and,  desir- 
ing a  card  of  his  terms  to  be  sent  to  the  author,  has  ac- 
quainted Mr.  Macready  that  he  will  read  it  again,  and 
wishes  to  have  a  personal  interview  with  the  author  to  give 
a  final  decision  or  make  an  arrangement  respecting  it. 

It  appears  also  that  Miss  Mitford  had  already  gone  to 
London,  at  Mr.  Macready's  request,  to  have  an  interview  with 
him  about  altering  some  part  of  the  play.  Such  negotiations 
might  have  led  a  less  sanguine  person  than  our  authoress  to 


"  Rienzir  1 1 5 

suppose  that  the  play  was  accepted.  On  finding  that  she 
was  mistaken,  her  disappointment  was  great,  and  a  friend 
wrote  on  the  subject  to  Blackwood's  Magazine,  using  strong 
expressions,  but  doing  good  service  to  Miss  Mitford  and  the 
public  in  bringing  her  case  into  notice. 

No  one  appreciated  Miss  Mitford's  dramatic  power  more 
fully  than  Mrs.  Trollope,*  Fanny  Milton,  her  friend  from 
childhood,  who  in  these  days  of  embarrassment  and  despond- 
ency energetically  advocated  her  cause.  Mrs.  Trollope 
had  the  happiness  of  being  present  when  her  anticipations 
were  realized  in  the  success  of  the  "  Foscari,"  and,  between 
joy  for  Miss  Mitford's  triumph  and  sympathy  with  the  play, 
"cried  herself  half  blind."  Miss  Mitford  tells  us  that  her 
kind  and  warm-hearted  friend  had  set  her  heart  on  securing 
the  performance  of  "  Rienzi  "  either  by  Kean  or  Macready. 
Her  interest  in  the  matter  is  shown  in  the  next  letter. 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Thursday. 

One  line,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  I  must  write  to  thank 
you  for  the  high,  the  very  high,  treat  you  have  given  me. 

Your  tragedy  must  neither  lie  on  the  shelf,  nor  must  it  be 
laid  at  the  feet  of  "  dear  William."  Jf  Kean  is  about  to 
return  this  year,  I  think  I  can  see  my  way  clearly.  No,  we 
will  not  entreat.  Do  not,  however,  be  afraid  of  me.  When 
I  am  talking  to  "  William,"  I  always  feel  quite  enough  in- 
clined to  pet  him,  and,  moreover,  I  know  he  would  make 
a  glorious  Rienzi,  both  strong  against  my  offending  him. 
But,  by  your  leave,  dear  friend,  he  must  not  play  out  of 
"charity."  Trust  me,  dear  William  would  rather  eat  his 
heart  than  see  Kean  appear  in  "  Rienzi." 

Would  you  indulge  Mr.  Milman  with  a  sight  of  the 
tragedy  ? 

Should  Colonna's  wife  be  styled  Lady  Colonna? 

May  I  write  to  you  when  I  hear  anything  of  the  where- 
abouts of  Kean  ? 

And  will  you  believe  me,  very  sincerely  and  faithfully 
yours,  F.  Trollope. 

*  See  letter  in  the  Introduction  from  Mrs.  Mitford,  dated  Nov.  14, 1802. 


ii6  Negotiations. 

The  above  seems  to  have  been  the  first  letter  from  Mrs. 
Trollope  that  Miss  Mitford  preserved.  She  calls  her  "a 
lively,  brilliant  woman  of  the  world,  with  a  warm,  blunt,  cor- 
dial manner,  and  many  accomplishments." 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Harrow,  Monday,  15th. 

Have  you  thought  it  very  strange  that  you  have  not  heard 
from  me  ?  I  am  sure  you  have  ;  but  it  has  not  been  my 
fault,  believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford.  The  first  thing  I 
did  after  my  return  was  to  see  my  Kean  friend.  I  would 
have  immediately  written  to  you  had  I  learned  from  him 
anything  certain,  but  I  was  only  told  that  nobody  knew  what 
he  intended  to  do,  and  that  his  wife  was  quite  as  ignorant 
of  his  intentions  as  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  then  waited 
for  the  coming  of  Mr.  Macready,  and  as  soon  as  I  heard 
that  he  was  in  town  I  wrote  to  him,  asking  him  to  come 
here  to  pass  a  day  with  us.  He  answered  that  he  would  do 
so.  A  day  was  fixed,  but  he  could  not  come.  Again  and 
again  he  was  prevented ;  but  yesterday  he  came,  and  our 
dear  Marianne  with  him. 

And  now,  my  dear  friend,  you  will  think  me  a  sorry  am- 
bassador when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  done  quasi  nothing. 
I  never  saw  anything  to  equal  the  ice-case  into  which  he 
retreats  the  instant  a  word  is  uttered  relative  to  his  profes- 
sion, and  I  confess  myself  unable  to  pursue  him  into  it.  I 
got  from  him  that  his  movements  for  next  year  (he  leaves 
London  on  Monday  next  for  this)  depend  entirely  on  Kean  ; 
if  he  acts  in  London,  Mr.  Macready  will  act  in  America,  and 
vice  versa.  Thus  they  cannot  be  pitted,  as  I  had  hoped,  one 
against  the  other.  Before  he  leaves  town,  however,  he  shall 
have  a  letter  from  me,  which  he  must  read,  you  know,  and 
which  I  suppose  he  will  answer.  My  object  in  writing  shall 
be  to  obtain  his  final  determination  as  to  "  Rienzi,"  and  ac- 
cording to  this  answer  we  must  look  to  Kean  for  next  year 
or  not.  I  think  I  can  assure  you  with  confidence  that  he 
does  not  know  who  wrote  the  offensive  article  ;  the  name  of 

Mr. was  mentioned  incidentally,  and  he  spoke  of  him 

with  gentleness,  and  even  with  kindness,  though  he  said 


Macready.  1 1 7 

from  what  he  had  seen  of  him,  he  did  not  think  him  a  man  of 
first-rate  intellect.  Now  our  friend  would  not  have  stopped 
there  had  he  known  who  wrote  the  letter  to  Blackwood. 

I  was  very  unlucky  yesterday  in  never  being  alone  with 
Mr.  M.  for  five  minutes.  I  would  have  hazarded  the  put- 
ting him  in  a  rage  had  no  one  been  by  to  see  it,  but  unhap- 
pily Mr.  T.  had  brought  down  a  young  Oxonian  with  him, 
who  never  quitted  us.  If  I  hear  from  him,  you  shall  hear 
again  from  me.  Is  there  any  chance  of  your  coming  to 
town  ?     I  long  to  see  you  here. 

I  write  in  great  haste  to  catch  Mr.  Partington,  who  will 
carry  this  to  Reading.  Let  me  hear  from  you,  dear  friend, 
and  believe  me,  Very  sincerely  yours, 

F.  Trollope. 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Harrow,  Thursday,  June  I,  1826. 
I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Macready,  my  dear 
Miss  Mitford,  dated  Bath.  Had  I  the  power  of  procuring  a 
frank,  I  would  enclose  it ;  as  it  is,  I  will  transcribe  what  he 
says  upon  the  subject  most  interesting.  He  apologizes  very 
politely  for  not  having  answered  my  letter  before  he  left 
town,  but  assures  me  that  incessant  occupation  prevented 
it.  He  then  says,  "I  would  not  be  ill-natured  or  ungen- 
erous, but  I  must  touch  on  things  that  are  very  painful  to 
remember.  All  that  I  could  do,  and  much  more  than 
prudence  and  my  own  interest  suggested,  I  did,  and  was 
prepared  to  do,  for  Miss  Mitford's  play  of  'Rienzi.'  As  a 
reward  for  all  the  friendship  I  could  show  her  I  was  libelled 
in  Blackwood's  Magazine  (and  the  matter  could  only  direct- 
ly or  indirectly  have  been  learned  from  Miss  Mitford) — I 
should  be  ashamed  if  I  bore  her  the  least  ill-will.  I  ac- 
knowledge and  respect  her  very  great  talents.  I  think 
•  Rienzi '  an  extraordinarily  clever  play.  I  should  be  most 
happy  in  an  opportunity  of  serving  her,  and  from  my  very 
soul  I  admire  her  excellent  qualities  of  heart.  But  what  is 
all  this?  I  am  wasting  my  paper  and  your  time,  and  com- 
ing to  no  result.  What  does  she  wish  me  to  do?  I  will  do 
anything  to  serve  her.     I  am  not  engaged  in  London ;  if  I 


1 1 8  Macready. 

should  be,  which  I  do  not  think  probable  this  year,  the 
managers  are  so  economical,  I  will  present  her  tragedy  again. 
If  Mr.  Young  should  be  engaged,  I  will  write  to  him  about 
it.  Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  ?  Instruct  me  how  I 
can  be  of  use  to  her,  and  how  I  can  show  you  the  esteem  in 
which  I  hold  your  mediation  in  such  a  cause,  and  I  will  not 
be  a  sluggard  in  it." 

Now  in  this,  my  dear  friend,  there  is  nothing  harsh  or  un- 
reasonable. He  has  been  wounded,  and  he  has  felt  it ;  but, 
as  far  as  I  understand  the  business,  he  may  yet  bring  for- 
ward your  noble  tragedy  as  it  deserves  to  be  brought  for- 
ward. There  is  nobody  can  do  it  justice  but  himself.  He 
says  in  another  place  that  he  should  prefer  the  intervention 
or  presence  of  a  third  person  in  any  correspondence  or  con- 
versation with  you  on  this  subject ;  and  this  is  always  right 
in  matters  any  way  connected  with  business.  Could  I  be 
of  any  use  in  this  way,  you  may  most  freely  command  me. 
Tell  me  how  I  shall  answer  this  letter,  I  will  say  whatever 
you  bid  me ;  and  you  will,  I  am  sure,  agree  with  me  that 
its  gentlemanlike  and  conciliatory  tone  deserves  an  early 
reply. 

Many,  many  thanks  for  your  letter :  it  was  very  cheering 
to  me,  for  truly  I  felt  ashamed  of  the  cowardice  that  made 
me  shrink  from  entering  upon  the  subject,  which  had  occu- 
pied my  mind  the  whole  day ;  but  I  am  now  really  glad  I 
did  not,  because  by  transcribing  his  letter  I  can  do  more 
justice  to  his  expressions  than  I  could  have  done  in  repeat- 
ing what  he  had  said.  I  heartily  hope  he  will  not  go  to 
America.  We  may  as  well  shut  up  our  legitimate  national 
theatre,  if  he  does. 

I  am  longing  to  get  your  new  volume,  and  I  am  longing 
to  see  you.  I  hear  in  many  directions  of  Mr.  Milman's 
high  admiration  of  "Rienzi."  "Said  I  not  right?"  You 
know  Mrs.  Milton  and  I  differed  on  this  subject;  she  did 
not  do  his  taste  justice. 

It  is  midnight.  I  have  been  at  the  Harrow  speeches, 
and  afterwards  dined  in  a  very  large  party,  but  I  was  deter- 
mined to  write  to-night.  Adieu  then,  and  believe  me,  truly 
and  affectionately  yours,  F.  Trollope. 


Macready.  119 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Harrow,  Sunday  [1826]. 

I  write,  my  dear  friend,  in  all  the  haste  of  preparation  for 
my  departure;  and  as  all  my  family  are  going  somewhere  or 
other,  I  have  much  to  occupy  me ;  so  excuse  a  worse  scrawl, 
if  possible,  than  usual. 

Our  friend  Mr.  Macready  is  at  Paris,  and  one  of  my  first 
objects  will  be  to  write  an  invitation  to  him  to  meet  seul-d,- 
seul  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  This  is  where  the  duels  are 
generally  fought :  our  meeting,  I  flatter  myself,  will  be  of  a 
different  kind.  It  strikes  me  that  your  letter  is  written  so 
sweetl)',  so  gently,  so  flatteringly,  and  so  much  to  the  pur- 
pose, that  I  cannot  do  better  than  to  put  it  into  his  hands. 
And  now  let  me  give  you,  en  passant,  my  ideas  on  this  sub- 
ject. I  agree  with  you  most  completely  as  to  the  part's  be- 
ing fitter  for  Macready  than  for  any  other  man  that  lives; 
it  unquestionably  is  so  :  and  if  he  would  play  it  with  all  his 
heart  and  all  his  soul  (as  Young  played  the  Doge),  I  know 
that  it  must  do  much  both  for  you  and  for  him.  But,  dear 
friend,  if  there  be  the  slightest  doubt,  hesitation,  or  vacilla- 
tion of  any  kind  in  him,  I  would  not,  were  I  you,  delay  the 
appearance  of  this  play.  Aliez  toujoiirs  is  what  those  who 
know  the  world  best  alwaj's  say  to  the  happy  ones  of  the 
earth  who  are  sailing  before  the  wind.  Aliez  toujours,  and 
you  will  reach  a  station  which  no  woman  has  ever  reached 
before.     You  will  have  possession  of  the  stage. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  for  me  to  say  that  I  would  choose 
Macready  for  your  high-priest,  your  prime-minister,  or  what 
you  will,  and  that  nothing  but  his  own  7cnll  should  prevent 
his  being  so.  But,  as  you  are  no  longer  in  a  situation  to 
rest  solely  on  this,  so  neither  must  you.  I  am  perfectly 
sure  that  in  any  case  his  noble  nature  and  kind  heart  will 
lead  him  to  wish  the  best  success  to  the  play.  But,  suppose 
he  does  not  take  it,  it  will  be  because  he  thinks  he  cannot 
do  so  with  advantage;  but  I  do  not  anticipate  this — quite  the 
contrary.  I  only  express  what  I  think  in  case  my  expecta- 
tions should  be  disappointed. 

I  go  Wednesday,  at  4  a.m.,  and  hope  to  return  the  begin- 


1 20  Macready. 

ning  or  middle  of  October.  You  will  see  our  dear  Marianne 
before  that  time;  she  will  stay  with  me  till  I  go.  She  will 
tell  you  of  a  scheme  we  have  in  which  we  think  you  may  be 
able  to  help  us,  but  remember  y^/  d''ho7inete  feynine.  You 
must  betray  us  to  no  one.  I  dare  say  that  you  will  laugh 
at  our  ambitious  speculation.  Laugh,  my  dear  friend  ;  your 
arrows  will  be  like  Cobham's,  tipped  with  good  -  nature. 
Adieu  !  I  do  think  you  will  come  to  me  when  the  next  play 
comes  out.  I  charge  you  make  "  Inez  "  graceful,  touching, 
and  popular,  that  is  all  I  ask;  am  I  not  moderate? 

Ever  affectionately  yours,  F.  Trollope. 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Harrow,  July  2,  1826. 

Your  kind  and  gratifying  letter,  my  dear  friend,  gave  me 
very  sincere  satisfaction,  as  it  proved  to  me  most  clearly  that 
nothing  like  harshness  could  rest  upon  your  mind.  I  think 
Mr.  Macready's  faults  have  been  greatly  exaggerated  by 
those  who  have  reported  him  to  you — at  least,  /  have  been 
able  to  discover  nothing  but  kindness  in  his  mind  towards 
you,  and  I  believe  that  this  kind  feeling  has  been  more 
pained  than  chilled  by  believing  that  you  had  ceased  to  feel 
equal  kindness  towards  him. 

I  have  now  to  tell  you  that  he  is  about  to  go  to  America 
immediately,  and  he  has  commissioned  me  to  ask  you  if  you 
would  like  that  he  should  take  your  tragedy  with  him.  He 
desires  me  to  say  that  he  will  engage  not  to  bring  it  forward 
unless  he  can  do  so  in  such  a  manner  as  would  insure  its  be- 
ing satisfactory  to  you.  Let  me  have  an  early  answer,  dear 
friend,  as  he  is  very  soon  to  set  forth ;  and,  in  case  you  accept 
the  proposal,  let  us  know  what  copy  to  send,  and  where  we 
are  to  get  it.  He  has  promised  to  come  down  here  one  day 
before  he  goes,  and  I  hope  I  shall  have  your  answer  before 
that  day. 

Pray  give  my  compliments  to  your  father,  and  tell  him 
that  though  Mr.  Trollope  most  cordially  wished  success  to 
the  Liberal  candidates,  he  could  not  interfere  with  Burns, 
whom  we  now  consider  as  Mrs.  1>,\S\.\.oxCs  protege  rather  than 
ours. 


Lafayette.  12 1 

I  dined  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  at  Mr.  Randolph's  on 
Friday.  They  talked  of  you,  and  Mrs.  Randolph  told  me 
that  she  must  invite  herself  to  visit  me  whenever  you  were 
my  guest,  which  I  told  her  you  had  more  than  half  promised 
me.  When  will  you  redeem  this  pledge?  Does  this  heat 
overwhelm  you  ?  and  how  do  your  flowers  bear  it  ?  My  rose- 
tide  (as  Lord  Orford  would  call  it)  is  almost  over,  but  it  has 
in  every  sense  been  a  spring-tide. 

Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  convey  the  enclosed  notes 
for  me,  and  will  you  believe  me,  what  in  truth  I  am, 

Very  affectionately  yours,  F.  Trollope. 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

I  will  not  leave  the  kingdom,  my  dear  friend,  only  for  a 
few  weeks  without  saying  adieu.  I  wish  heartily  that  you 
were  going  too,  as  I  shall  be  much  with  people  that  I  know 
you  would  like,  and  who  would  like  you.  We  shall  pass  the 
first  fortnight  of  our  stay  at  Lagrange,  the  residence  of  our 
valued  friend,  the  venerable  Lafayette.  What  a  study  would 
this  admirable  man  be  for  such  a  pencil  as  yours !  We  shall 
then  return  to  Paris,  where  we  shall  stay  as  long  as  Mr. 
Trollope's  business  will  permit  his  absence,  but  this  can  only 
be  to  the  end  of  October.  I  do  hope  and  trust  that  nothing 
will  prevent  our  having  the  happiness  of  seeing  you  here 
after  our  return — we  shall  have  so  much  to  talk  of.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  you  will  hear  that  we  have  been  amusing  our- 
selves during  the  boys'  holidays  by  acting  plays.  Do  not, 
however,  fancy  that  I  have  been  representing  the  Margra- 
vine in  little.  Our  theatre  is  made  in  our  drawing-room,  and 
the  object  of  it  was  to  improve  the  French  pronunciation  of 
our  children  by  getting  up  scenes  from  Molibre.  We 
have  a  French  friend  who  plays  with  us,  and  it  is  really  as- 
tonishing how  much  they  have  got  on  by  his  aid. 

Adieu,  dear  friend.  Present  my  compliments  to  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Mitford,  and  believe  me 

Very  affectionately  yours,  F.  Trollope. 

P.S. — We  set  off  on  Monday. 

6 


122  A  Democratic  Artist. 


Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Harrow,  April  22,  1827. 

I  was  very  sorry  that  Mr,  Trollope  missed  seeing  you.  It 
would  have  given  him  pleasure,  and  it  would  have  given  me 
news  of  you.  Moreover,  he  would  have  canvassed  you  for 
a  favor  that  I  am  now  going  to  ask.  Among  the  many 
young  Frenchmen  who  have  been  exiled  for  wishing  for 
more  freedom  than  the  Bourbon  fools  and  knaves  allowed, 
is  an  artist,  who  first  became  known  to  us  as  a  drawing- 
master.  If  I  have  any  knowledge  of  what  is  meant  by  the 
phrase  a  man  of  genius,  I  conceive  it  to  belong  to  him ;  but 
he  is  totally  and  entirely  alone,  and  unknown.  His  father, 
who  was  a  colonel  in  the  emperor's  army,  died  in  the  retreat 
from  Moscow,  and  left  him  no  inheritance  but  debts.  His 
only  surviving  relative  is  a  rich  priest — a  Jesuit — whom,  as 
you  may  well  imagine,  he  has  utterly  offended.  It  would 
make  your  gentle  heart  ache  if  I  were  to  tell  you  one 
quarter  of  what  he  has  endured  since  he  took  refuge  among 
us.  How  he  has  contrived  to  live  I  know  not,  but  he  has 
now  a  few  pupils,  and  this  has  enabled  him  (by  sometimes 
going  without  his  dinner,  to  buy  colors)  to  paint  a  picture, 
which  has  been  received  by  the  committee  at  Somerset  House. 
It  is  not  »y  judgment  alone  that  I  give  you,  when  I  say  that 
this  picture  is  most  admirable ;  but  I  well  know  its  merits  will 
never  be  felt  without  the  aid  of  the  public  press.  I  know 
you  have  influence  enough  with  Mr.  Walter  to  get  it  spoken 
of  in  the  Times,  and  perhaps  in  some  other  publications.  All 
I  would  ask  is  to  direct  attention  to  it;  for  I  am  quite  sure 
that,  if  it  is  hung  where  it  can  be  seen,  it  cannot  be  looked 
at  without  admiration.  The  picture  will  be  called  in  the 
catalogue  "  Love  and  Folly,"  by  A.  J.  J.  Hervieu,  No.  78 
Newman  Street.  Will  you  then,  dear  friend,  pardon  all  this 
long  history,  and  try  to  aid  by  your  influence  a  being  who  is 
worthy  to  call  you  friend — one  day  or  other  I  shall  hope  to 
make  him  known  to  you. 

Adieu.  Give  our  kind  compliments  to  your  father,  and 
believe  me  Ever  affectionately  yours, 

F.  Trollope. 


"  Cromwell."  123 

P.S. — And  so  you  would  not  come  to  do  chief  lion  at  Miss 
Landon's.  It  was  really  a  very  smart  party,  though  some  of 
us  did  look  rather  queer.  You  need  not  talk  of  our  demo- 
cratic friend  to  any  of  our  dear  good  Tory  ones.  They 
would  groan  in  spirit,  and  think  that  Trollope,  his  wife,  and 
all  his  children  were  going  to  destruction.     Adieu. 

Towards  the  end  of  1828  "  Rienzi "  was  performed  at 
Drury  Lane,  the  hero  being  played  by  Young,  and  the 
scenery  painted  by  Stanfield.  The  heroine,  Miss  Phillips, 
was  then  only  a  girl  of  sixteen.  The  success  proved  great, 
and  there  was  a  long  run  of  crowded  houses.  Miss  Mitford 
received  ;^4oo  from  the  theatre,  and  sold  eight  thousand 
copies  of  the  play.  "Rienzi"  also  became  popular  in 
America.  It  possessed  considerable  poetic  beauty  and 
dramatic  power. 

The  following  three  letters  relate  to  plays  which  Miss 
Mitford  wrote  :  "  Cromwell "  (or  "  Charles  I."),  "  Inez  de 
Castro,"  and  "  Otto  of  Wittelsbach." 

Dr.  Milman  to  Miss  Mitford. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  am  quite  ashamed  of  having 
kept  your  unread  "  Cromwell "  so  long,  but  I  have  been  in- 
tending to  bring  it  myself.  The  weather,  however,  during 
part  of  last  week,  and  latterly,  I  grieve  to  say,  Mrs.  Milman's 
indisposition,  have  been  insuperable  impediments.  Thank 
you  for  it.  It  is  a  strange,  clever,  absurd,  lively,  queer, 
farcical,  indescribable  production.  It  is  impossible  not  to 
be  amused — impossible  not  occasionally  to  admire.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  Liston  farce  of  part  of  it  even  exceeds  my 
notion  of  the  liberty  of  the  gerire  roinantique. 

I  heard  from  Harness.  He  is  still  unavoidably  detained 
in  town,  but  will  really  come  as  soon  as  he  is  at  liberty. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  ever  very  truly  yours, 

H.  Milman. 

Dr.  Milman,  afterwards  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  was  vicar  of 
St,  Mary's,  Reading,  Miss  Mitford  spoke  in  high  terms  of 
his  reading  and  preaching, and  upon  his  leaving  wrote, "We 


124  Charles  Kemblc. 

have  lost  our  neighbor,  Dr.  Milman,  who  has  got  a  London 
living.  I  would  rather  have  lost  a  hundred  stupid  acquaint- 
ances than  one  friend  so  entirely  after  my  own  fashion." 

C.  Kemble  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Theatre  Royal,  Covent  Garden, 
Jan.  29,  1827. 

My  dear  Madam, — On  my  return  from  Bristol,  which  will 
be  in  about  eight  days,  I  will  rummage  out  what  plays  I  have 
upon  the  subject  of  "  Inez."  My  books  being  at  present  in 
utter  confusion,  it  would  take  me  more  time  than  I  can  spare 
to  find  them  before  I  leave  town.  The  subject  is  very  pa- 
thetic, and,  I  think,  admits  of  strong  and  varied  character. 
Has  not  Hayley,  in  one  of  his  plays,  drawn  such  a  deformity 
as  you  propose  for  Mr.  Warde?  I  am  almost  sure  he  has; 
and,  if  my  conjecture  be  well  founded,  will  it  be  prudent  to 
follow  an  unsuccessful  example?  My  wife  and  daughter 
send  you  their  best  compliments,  and  beg  you  to  believe 
they  will  have  great  pleasure  in  seeing  you  on  your  next 
visit  to  London.  "With  respects  to  the  doctor,  I  must  con- 
clude this  hasty  scrawl. 

I  am  always,  my  dear  madam. 

Yours  most  faithfully, 

C.  Kemble. 

C.  M.  Young  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Nov.  21,  1828. 
Dear  Miss  Mitford, — Your  plot  of  "Otto"  is  returned 
to  me  without  remark,  except  to  beg  that  you  would  go  on 
with  the  writing  it  as  fast  as  you  can ;  and  which  of  the  many 
alterations  (you  offer  obligingly  to  make  in  the  melodrama) 
he  will  accept  I  know  not,  but  I  think  the  part  will  fall  to 
Miss  Love,  and  'tis  time  enough  to  settle  about  alterations 
when  the  period  of  producing  the  piece  shall  approach.  At 
present  we  are  up  to  our  necks  (that  is,  not  I,  but  they)  with 
the  "Blind  Beggar  of  Bethnal  Green"  and  the  Christmas 
pantomime.  I'm  playing  ill,  or  I'd  run  down  to  Three-mile 
Cross.     I've  no  comfort  but  "  Our  Village,"  which  I  eat  like 


Mrs.  He  mans.  125 

an  epicure,  bit  by  bit,  to  prolong  the  meal — beautiful,  quite 
beautiful,  dear  madam. 

Yours  faithfully,  C.  M.  Young.* 

The  following  is  interesting  as  showing  the  manner  in 
which  Mrs.  Hemans  first  became  acquainted  with  Miss  Mit- 
ford  ("  Our  Village"  had  been  published  in  1824) : 

Mrs.  Hemans  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Rhyllon,  St.  Asaph,  June  6,  1827. 
Madam, — I  can  hardly  feel  that  I  am  addressing  an  entire 
stranger  in  the  author  of  "  Our  Village,"  and  yet  I  know  it  is 
right  and  proper  that  I  should  apologize  for  the  liberty  I  am 
taking.  But  really,  after  having  accompanied  you,  as  I  have 
done  again  and  again,  in  "  violeting,"  and  seeking  for  wood- 
sorrel — after  having  been  with  you  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Allen 
in  "  the  dell,"  and  becoming  thoroughly  acquainted  with  May 
and  Lizzie — I  cannot  but  hope  that  you  will  kindly  pardon 
my  obtrusion,  and  that  my  name  may  be  sufficiently  known 
to  you  to  plead  my  cause.  There  are  writers  whose  works 
we  cannot  read  without  feeling  as  if  we  really  had  looked 
with  them  upon  the  scenes  they  bring  before  us,  and  as  if 
such  communion  had  almost  given  us  a  claim  to  something 
more  than  the  mere  intercourse  between  authors  and  "  gentle 
readers."  Will  you  allow  me  to  say  that  your  writings  have 
this  effect  upon  me,  and  that  you  have  taught  me,  in  making 
me  know  and  love  your  "  Village  "  so  well,  to  wish  for  further 
knowledge  also  of  /ler  who  has  so  vividly  impressed  its  din- 
gles and  copses  upon  my  imagination,  and  peopled  them  so 
cheerily  with  healthful  and  happy  beings?  I  believe,  if  I 
could  be  personally  introduced  to  you,  that  I  should  in  less 
than  five  minutes  begin  to  inquire  about  Lucy,  and  the  lilies 
of  the  valley,  and  whether  you  had  succeeded  in  peopling 

*  The  biography  of  this  celebrated  actor  has  been  written  by  his  son, 
the  Rev.  Julian  Young.  Fanny  Kemble  writes :  "  Young  had  hand- 
some, regular  features,  of  the  Roman  cast,  and  a  deep,  melodious  voice, 
but  no  tragic  mental  element  whatever,  but  great  comic  power  of  mimicry, 
lie  was  a  cultivated  musician,  and  very  popular  in  the  best  society.  He 
made  ;^4000  per  annum." 


126  Mrs.  Hemans. 

that  "  shady  border  "  in  your  own  territories  with  those  shy 
flowers. 

My  boys,  the  constant  companions  of  my  walks  about  our 
village,  and  along  our  two  pretty  rivers,  the  Elwy  and  the 
Clwyd,  are  not  less  interested  in  your  gypsies,  young  and 
old,  your  heroes  of  the  cricket  ground,  and,  above  all,  Jack 
Hatch.  Woful  and  amazed  did  they  all  look  when  it  was 
found  out  at  last  that  Jack  Hatch  could  die ! 

But  I  really  must  come  to  the  aim  and  object  of  this  letter, 
which  I  fear  you  may  almost  look  upon  as  "prose  run  mad." 
I  dare  say  you  laugh  sometimes,  as  I  am  inclined  to  do  my- 
self, at  the  prevailing  mania  for  autographs,  but  a  very  kind 
friend  of  mine  in  a  distant  county  does  no  such  thing,. and 
I  am  making  a  collection  for  him,  which  I  should  think  (and 
he  too,  I  am  sure)  very  much  enriched  by  your  name.  If 
you  do  me  the  favor  to  comply  with  this  request,  it  will  give 
me  great  pleasure  to  hear  from  you  under  cover  to  the 
Bishop  of  St.  Asaph,  78  Gloucester  Place,  Portman  Square, 
to  whom  I  should  have  sent  this  letter  to  be  franked,  but 
that,  being  ignorant  of  your  address,  I  am  obliged  to  intrust 
it  to  a  bookseller  in  town. 

With  sincere  esteem,  I  beg  you  to  believe  me,  madam, 
Your  faithful  servant,  F.  Hemans.* 

Miss  Mitford  writes  in  1836:  "On  her  dying- bed  Mrs. 
Hemans  used  to  recur  to  my  descriptions  of  natural  scenery, 
and  meant,  if  she  lived,  to  have  inscribed  a  volume  to  me. 
She  was  a  charming  woman,  and  so  is  my  friend  Mary 
Howitt.*'  Mrs.  Hemans  wrote  several  letters  to  Miss  Mit- 
ford, some  of  which  were  published  in  Mrs.  Hemans's  "  Life  " 
by  Mr.  Chorley. 

*  By  a  curious  coincidence  the  signature  to  this  letter  has  been  cut  off 
for  an  autograph. 


MatrimoniaL  127 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Miss  Mitford's  Suitors.  —  Letter  from  a  STRA^fGER.  —  LErrERS 
FROM  Dyce,  Young,  Mrs.  Hofland,  and  Mrs.  Hall. — Poetical 
Address  by  Miss  S.  Strickland. 

The  remark  has  often  been  made  that  we  meet  with  no 
romance  in  Miss  Mitford's  history — no  trace  of  even  a  pass- 
ing predilection  or  an  unfortunate  attachment.  In  her  ear- 
lier years  she  was  sometimes  twitted  about  partialities  for 
her  cousin  Bertram  Mitford  and  others,  but  no  impression 
seems  to  have  been  made.  That  she  was  so  far  heart-whole 
v/as  evident,  for  she  could  be  jocose  on  the  subject.  She 
says  that  General  Donkin*  wanted  his  son  to  marry  her,  and 
speaks  in  1818  of  an  American  "who  was  a  sort  of  lover  of 
mine  some  seven  or  eight  years  ago" — when  she  was  about 
twenty-three — "but  who  had  the  good  luck  to  be  drowned 
instead  of  married."  When  the  family  were  turned  out  of 
Bertram  House  by  Mr.  Elliott,  she  writes:  "But  for  the  ill- 
luck  of  his  having  a  wife,  I  need  not  move  at  all,  since  he 
says,  had  it  not  been  for  that  misfortune,  he  would  have 
married  me  himself.  He  is  a  little,  mean -looking  Bond- 
street  shopkeeper  of  sixty-five,  with  a  Methodist  face,  all 
bile  and  wrinkles  and  sadness,  and  a  spruce  wig  in  fine 
curls,  shining  like  a  horse-chestnut.  I  would  certainly  have 
married  him,  though." 

There  were  afterwards  great  difficulties  in  the  way  of  any 
matrimonial  settlement.  The  family  had  sunk  from  opu- 
lence until  her  parents  had  become  in  a  great  measure  de- 
pendent upon  her,  and  nothing  would  have  induced  her  to 
leave  them.  Suitors  would  have  had  before  them  the  pros- 
pect of  supporting  a  penniless  old  man  with  extravagant 
ideas,  to  whom   his  daughter  was  blindly  devoted.     Miss 

*  Perhaps  Sir  William  Elford  alludes  to  this  in  asking  about  the 
"  Quartermaster"  in  his  letter  of  April  9,  1812, 


128  Ah  Admirer. 

Mitford  possessed  the  attractions  of  worth  and  genius,  but 
a  lover  is  not  guided  by  such  advantages,  and  would  per- 
haps have  required  stronger  attractions  than  a  stout  figure 
and  a  pleasant  intellectual  countenance.  From  those  who 
knew  her  circumstances  no  offers  seem  to  have  come,  but 
the  following  letter  of  admiration  from  a  stranger,  raised  to 
enthusiasm  by  her  literary  talent,  is  too  characteristic  to  be 
omitted : 

Govan,  Dec.  31,  1827. 

Dear  Madam, — I  remember  quite  well  sending  you  a 
letter  long  ago,  but  nothing  more  ;  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
it  was  written  under  an  hallucination.  You  cannot  believe 
how  much  pain  the  reflection  cost  me,  having  no  recollec- 
tion of  what  I  said,  and  fearing  I  may  have  spoken  indecor- 
ously to  you.  But  as  this  is  our  Hogmanay,*  I  have  got 
somewhat  elevated  in  spirit,  and  feel  disposed  to  write  to 
you  again,  without  fashing  myself  at  all  about  what  I  said 
before. 

Dear  madam,  excuse  my  freedom,  but  I  love  you  with  all 
my  soul.  Since  I  was  fifteen,  I  had  a  vast  number  of  loves, 
that  is,  I  have  at  no  time  been  destitute  of  a  dreaming  pas- 
sion for  some  one  or  other,  without  going  farther ;  but  you, 
for  more  than  this  year  back,  have  been  my  beau-ideal,  and 
are  likely  to  continue  so,  because  my  love  for  you  is  founded 
on  realities,  and  not  on  imaginings,  as  the  others  were.  I 
have  never  seen  you :  to  see  you  might  make  me  love  you 
more,  but  could  not  possibly  make  me  love  you  less ;  for  it  is 
your  heart,  feelings,  thoughts,  genius,  that  I  love — they  accord 
so  beautifully  with  my  own.  I  sometimes  think  you  are  me. 
I  mean — though  I  could  no  more  write  like  you  than  fly — 
that,  if  I  could  write,  I  would  write  exactly  the  same.  Now 
what  puzzles  me  is  this :  I  wonder  how  you  can  possibly  be 
a  woman.  I  never  saw  a  celebrated  female  writer  in  my 
life.  Of  how  you  look,  and  how  you  conduct  yourself  in 
private  and  among  friends,  I  cannot  form  the  slightest  con- 
ception, Male  authors  one  has  some  idea  of;  I  have  seen 
two,  that  is  all — Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  Mr.  Jeffreys  in  the 

*  The  last  day  ot  the  year. 


An  Advtirer.  129 

Court  of  Sessions  once  three  years  ago — but  you  go  beyond 
my  grasp.  There  is  Miss  Baillie,  and  Mrs.  Hemans,  and 
Miss  Landon,  and  yourself — these  are  all  I  remember.  I 
am  not  very  anxious  to  see  Miss  Baillie  (I  suppose  she's  a 
sort  of  nun)  nor  Mrs.  H.  (I  take  her  to  go  swimming  like 
a  fine  tragic  queen),  nor  Miss  L.  Yes,  I  would  like  very 
well  to  see  her,  though  I  care  little  for  her  poetry.  But 
you,  above  all  things  in  the  world,  I  would  like  to  see — 
and  next  to  that  I  would  like  to  know  the  particulars  of 
your  life.  There  is  nobody  in  this  village  can  tell  me  any- 
thing about  you.  The  minister  himself  is  grossly  ignorant. 
We  have  not  now  got  a  circulating  library.  It  was  too  near 
Glasgow  to  thrive,  and  I  am  noways  acquainted  in  Glas- 
gow. I  am,  therefore,  famishing  for  the  want  of  books.  I 
have  to  pick  up  all  my  news  of  literature  from  the  newspa- 
pers. I  saw  a  delightful  piece  of  yours  quoted  there  lately 
from  a  book  called  "  The  Coronet,  or  Literary  and  Chris- 
tian Remembrancer."  It  was  entitled  "  Fanny's  Fairings," 
and  how  I  did  "  Ho !  ho  !"  with  Tommy  Stokes  !  My  moth- 
er thought  I  was  getting  crazed.  I  wish  you  knew  my 
mother.  A  better  woman  does  not  breathe,  but  I  doubt  I 
have  broke  her  heart.  It  was  all  her  wish  and  ambition  to 
see  me  wag  my  pow  in  a  pulpit;  but  to  be  a  minister  dressed 
in  black  all  the  days  of  my  life,  and  obliged  to  preach  and 
pray  whether  I  felt  disposed  or  not,  I  could  not  think  of  it. 
I  would  rather  have  taken  the  red  coat.  So  here  I  am 
with  my  mother  in  our  own  little  house,  attempting  to  learn 
the  weaving,  with  a  view  of  commencing  manufacturing  by- 
and-by  in  the  famous  city  of  Glasgow.  It  is  well  I  don't 
need  to  depend  upon  it,  for  I  am  singularly  lazy,  especially 
in  fine  weather,  and  vastly  prefer  a  loiter  by  Cruikstane 
Castle,  or  a  danner*  by  Kelvin-side  to  anything  else.  Were 
you  ever  in  Scotland  ?  It  is  a  foolish  notion — but  could 
anything  be  more  beautiful  than  the  thought  of  you  (a  fine 
English  lady)  asking  your  way  to  our  house,  and  I  putting 
you  on  your  right  path,  knowing  you  afterwards  to  be  Miss 
Mitford.    Or — what  is  better — suppose  you  storm-stead,  and 

♦  A  saunter. 
6* 


1 30  Views  on  Matrimony. 

obliged  to  seek  shelter  with  us.  Oh,  delicious !  To  see 
you  sitting  at  the  fireside,  cracking  with  my  mother,  while  I 
would  be  ransacking  the  presses  for  everything  drinkable 
and  eatable.  In  such  dreams  I  am  forever  indulging.  I 
have  bought  a  copy  at  last  of  "  Our  Village,"  and  am  never 
done  reading  it.  I  read  it  aloud,  every  word,  to  my  mother ; 
but  I  will  not  tell  what  she  said  of  it.  She  thinks  it  her 
duty  to  discountenance  all  novels ;  but  when  she  begins  one, 
she  is  as  bad  as  myself.  "Pamela"  is  her  delight.  Now 
I  must  not  hide  what  she  said  of  "Our  Village,"  for  I  know 
you  cannot  be  offended  at  an  old  woman's  prejudices.  She 
said  it  was  unco  clever — just  extraordinar  clever — but  she 
thought  you  was  a  wee  glaiket.  She  could  not  see  how  you 
could  set  up  your  face  in  the  clachan*  after  exposing  so 
many  characters.  I  said  that  much  of  it  might  be  fanciful, 
and  that  the  characters  were  probably  disguised.  "  Then 
it's  no  true,"  said  she,  "I  canna  believe  that,  for  I  hae  seen 
the  like  o'  Hannah  mysel',  and  that  hempie  f  Cousin  Mary, 
everybody  maun  ken  her." 

You  must  think  me  impertinent,  and  so  I  am,  on  paper. 
To-morrow  is  New-year's  day.  I  will  drink  your  health  for 
the  hundredth  time.  Excuse  me.  If  I  were  sure  this  letter 
would  reach  you,  I  would  have  taken  pains,  but  I  have  gone 
on  rum-strum,  and  find  myself  at  the  bottom. 

I  am,  with  deep  admiration  and  attachment, 

Your  humble  servant  till  death, 

C.G.t 

P.S. — The  minister  thinks  you  must  be  a  daughter  of  Mr. 
Mitford  who  wrote  the  "  History  of  Greece." 

[Writing  ten  years  later,  Miss  Mitford  says,  •"  It  is  most 
certain  that  I  shall  never  marry ;  at  my  age  it  would  be 
most  foolish,  even  if  any  one  were  simple  enough  to  desire 
so  old  and  ugly  a  wife.     There  is  no  sight  so  melancholy 

♦  Village.  t  Roguish. 

X  The  name  has  been  torn  off  this  letter,  perhaps  by  Miss  Mitford. 


Dyce's  Editiotis.  131 

as  a  wedding;  and  when  there  is  no  money  the  thing  is 
worse." 

Towards  the  end  of  her  life  Miss  Mitford's  fondness  for 
the  drama  brought  her  into  connection  with  some  gifted 
actors,  and  there  was  one  for  whom  she  certainly  expressed 
great  admiration.  In  her  letters  to  Miss  Jephson  forwarded 
to  me,  that  lady  has  invariably  erased  several  lines  where 
that  gentleman  is  mentioned.  But  it  has  been  stated  on 
good  authority,  and  I  believe  correctly,  that  she  merely  ap- 
preciated his  professional  talent] 

Alexander  Dyce  to  Miss  Mitford. 

London,  72  Welbeck  Street,  Cavendish  Square, 
Oct.  20, 1828. 

Dear  Madam, — Accept  my  best  thanks  for  the  copy  of 
"  Rienzi,"  and  allow  me  to  assure  you  that  it  has  not  been 
thrown  away,  for,  as  Harness  can  bear  witness,  I  can  repeat 
long  passages  of  it  by  heart.  I  have  now  the  pleasure  of 
forwarding  to  you  the  volumes  I  mentioned.  If  you  were 
a  mere  poetical  antiquary,  and  valued  what  was  rare  more 
than  what  was  excellent,  I  should  expect  that  Peele  would 
find  great  favor  in  your  sight,  for  of  some  of  his  pieces  (now 
for  the  first  time  repeated)  not  more  than  two  copies  exist. 
Still  I  think  that  whoever  reads  his  works  with  the  hope  of 
finding  poetry  in  them  will  not  be  utterly  disappointed. 
Recollect  that  he  wrote  at  a  time  when  there  was  no  Eng- 
lish drama  worth  copying;  and  you  will  surely  be  forced  to 
allow  that  he  possessed  considerable  genius. 

"  The  Old  Wives'  Tale "  (which  everybody  had  heard 
of,  but  nobody  had  seen  till  my  reprint  appeared)  is  very 
interesting,  as  having  most  probably  furnished  hints  to  Mil- 
ton for  his  "  Comus."  I  take  the  liberty  of  sending  with 
"  Peele "  another  small  volume,  which  I  published  some 
time  ago.  You  will  not,  I  trust,  be  very  angry  with  me 
when  you  find  that  it  contains  some  of  your  own  verses ; 
but  I  must  account  to  you  for  having  selected  what  you 
perhaps  think  an  unfavorable  specimen  of  your  poetry. 
Though  the  volume  bears  date  1827,  it  was  printed  several 
years  earlier,  and  lay  in  sheets  at  the  printer's,  owing  to  the 


J  32  Contributions. 

pecuniary  difficulties  of  my  publisher,  till  my  patience  was 
almost  exhausted.  At  the  time  I  put  its  contents  together 
you  had  not  written,  at  least  not  published,  those  smaller 
poems,  some  of  which  would  have  suited  my  purpose  so 
well.  Believe  me,  dear  madam,  very  faithfully. 

Your  most  obedient  servant, 

Alexander  Dyce. 

The  Rev.  Alexander  Dyce  was  the  well-known  editor  of 
"  Shakespeare"  and  of  the  elder  dramatists.*  The  allusion 
at  the  end  of  the  above  letter  is  to  some  specimens  of  our 
"  English  Female  Poets,"  published  by  him.  Mr.  Harness 
introduced  him  to  Miss  Mitford,  who  said  she  felt  highly 
honored  by  his  approval  of  "Rienzi." 

Allan  Cunningham  to  Miss  Mitford. 

27  Belgrave  Place,  Nov.  21,  1828. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  thank  you  for  your  kind  and 
candid  letter.  I  shall  be  silent,  you  may  be  assured  of  that, 
and  am  indeed  glad  that  you  think  as  I  do  respecting  the 
"  Annuals."  I  beg  you  will  be  mine  exclusively  next  year — 
we  shall  not  disagree  about  the  terms.  I  shall  want  some- 
thing like  a  couple  of  stories  and  a  little  dramatic  scene ; 
but  of  this  we  can  talk  when  the  time  comes.  My  scheme 
is  to  secure  the  constant  and  exclusive  help  of  four  or  five 
authors  of  fame  and  name,  pay  them  well,  obtain  a  certain 
quantity  in  their  best  manner  from  them,  and  then  make 
out  the  book  with  my  own  hand  and  the  help  of  a  few  other 
friends. 

I  shall  not  hurry  you  for  the  tale  for  volume  second.  I 
cannot  begin  to  print  before  April  or  May.  The  book  will 
be  out  on  Tuesday;  but  before  then  a  copy  will  be  on  its 
way  to  you ;  a  copy  also  goes  to  the  king.  Our  friend  the 
Scotsmafi  speaks  highly  of  your  communication  to  me.  I 
have  to  send  him  your  address,  that  he  may  send  you  a  paper 
whenever  he  praises  you.  I  think,  from  his  admiration  of 
your  writings,  you  will  see  many  of  his  papers.  He  feels 
the  right-hearted,  straightforward  English  character  of  your 

*  He  left  his  valuable  library  to  the  South  Kensington  Museum. 


'' Riensi."  133 

compositions,  and  that  you  never  write  for  words,  but  for 
ideas. 

My  wife  unites  with  me  in  love  and  esteem,  and  in  assur- 
ance of  lending  tongue  and  voice  to  the  furtherance  of  your 
new  play  when  it  is  represented.  Nothing,  indeed,  could  be 
more  successful  than  "Rienzi,"  and  it  reads  better  than  it 
acts.  I  am,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

Allan  Cunningham. 

Allan  Cunningham,  a  native  of  Scotland,  was  a  poet,  nov- 
elist, and  sculptor.  He  published  a  "  History  of  British 
Painters,"  etc. 

C.  M.  Young  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Dec.  20,  1828. 

My  dear  Madam, — "  Rienzi's  "  twentieth  night  went  off 
to  an  admirable  audience,  and  was  extremely  applauded. 
Your  difficulties  about  "  Otto  "  I  feel.  I  think  he  must  not 
be  Brunswick,  I  think  he  must  not  be  killed  on  the  stage,  be- 
cause he  is  an  emperor,  and  because  we  have  a  licenser — 
mum  !  I  wish  you  were  not  forty  miles  off;  so  many  things 
come  into  one's  head  to  say  when  one  is  absent  which  will 
not,  from  pure  perverseness,  "come  to  your  call "  when  most 
needful.  One  thing  I'll  mention — with  all  we  can  do,  cut- 
ting and  clipping,  speaking  fast  and  with  energy,  speaking 
slow  and  with  pathos,  however  it  may  be,  the  devil  a  bit  can 
we  help  the  last  scene  of  Claudia  dragging,  dragging,  drag- 
ging !  I  think  it  is  because  the  Event  (a  small  matter  of 
E.xecution)  is  in  process,  as  well  the  audience  know ;  whilst 
Claudia  is  talk,  talk,  talking  !  Now,  when  the  audience  is 
in  the  scent  of  any  incident,  I  don't  think  they  like  suspense  ! 
Am  I  wrong?  I  only  mention,  be  it  right  or  wrong,  that  you 
may  think  of  it  whilst  composing  fresh  matter.  If  you  agree 
with  me,  you'll  avoid  it  again ;  if  you  don't,  why  then  you'll 
do  it  again.  "Words  is  no  blows,  and  speaking  don't  break 
no  bones !"  as  an  erudite  farmer  once  told  me. 

The  postman  rings  I  The  bell,  the  bell,  the  mighty  bell ! 
Adieu,  dear  madam.     Success  to  your  pen. 

Your  faithful  servant,  C.  M.  Young. 


1 34  Reported  Marriage. 

Through  the  Hoflands  Miss  Mitford  had  become  acquaint- 
ed with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  about  the  year  1826.  Mrs. 
Hall  was  now  writing  her  celebrated  "  Sketches  of  Irish 
Character."  She  dedicated  this  work  to  Miss  Mitford,  and 
observes,  "  My  first  dear  book  was  inspired  by  a  desire  to 
describe  my  native  place  as  Miss  Mitford  had  *Our  Vil- 
lage.' "  The  following  letter,  written  at  this  time,  has  been 
kindly  contributed  by  Mr.  S.  C.  Hall  :* 

Mrs.  Hofland  to  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall. 

23  Newman  Street,  March  3,  [1S29]. 

Och  I  to  be  shure,  my  dear  honey,  and  it's  your  own  swate 
self  that  is  quite  ignorant  of  the  most  wonderfuUest,  aston- 
ishing surprise  that  is  just  come  upon  a  body,  and  that  has 
done  a  body's  heart  good  to  think  about — an'  nivver  a  word 
the  spalpeen  rascals  i'  the  Times  has  tould  us  about  it,  be- 
case,  you  see,  she  commanded  her  nibors  (the  faather  and 
thim)  to  hould  their  black  and  white  tongues,  and  never 
mintion  the  particklar  case.  But  as  to  not  tellin'  o'  you, 
my  dare,  all  as  I  jist  happen  to  know  why,  it's  out  o'  the 
question,  honey — so  here  goes.  !Miss  Mary  Mitford  is  mar- 
ried, honestly  married  to  one  of  her  own  kith  and  kin,  a  true 
Mitford  of  Northumberland,  tho'  his  relationship  is  a  mighty 
way  off.  An'  he  have  taken  her  down  to  his  own  fine  estate, 
a  noble  ould  mansion,  an'  made  her,  who  was  a  rale  lady, 
jist  asy  for  the  rest  of  her  days,  an'  her  parents  asy  too,  an' 
if  that  isn't  good  news,  what  is,  honey  dear  ? 

My  dear  Mrs.  Hall,  in  plain  English,  this  is  the  fact,  not 
communicated  to  me  by  her,  for  she  has  not  told  any  living 
creature,  for  what  reason  I  do  not  know,  but  I  conjecture 
that  it  may  not  interfere  with  arrangements  respecting  her 
forthcoming  tragedy.  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  songt 
printed  in  your  excellent  magazine  (for  it  is,  so  far  as  I  have 
seen,  as  good  as  the  first)  was  written  in  reference  to  this 

*  Between  1829  and  1832  Miss  Mitford  frequently  wrote  for  Mrs. 
Hall's  "Juvenile  Forget-me-not,"  her  fellow -contributors   being  Mrs. 
Hemans,  Miss  Strickland,  Mary  Howitt,  Mrs.  Opie,  Hannah  More,  etc. 
t  The  song  begins — 

"  And  art  thou  come  back  safe  again 
From  over  the  salt  sea  ?" 


Reported  Marriage.  135 

gentleman,  who  was  attached  to  her  in  early  life,  but  could 
not  then  marry,  and  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  many  years 
till  within  a  very  few  weeks.  The  marriage  and  all  the  ar- 
rangements have  been  kept  a  profound  secret,  and  they  are 
gone  to  his  seat  in  Northumberland.  The  friend  who  told 
me  mentioned  it  a  fortnight  ago  in  confidence.  We  had  it 
from  Mr.  Mitford's  brother,  an  officer,  who,  I  believe,  is  sorry 
it  takes  place,  because  people  don't  like  bachelor  brothers 
who  are  wealthy  to  marry,  otherwise  he  has  all  respect  for 
the  lady's  talents  and  character.  They  are  perfectly  suited 
in  age.  He  is  a  man  of  great  ability,  and  proud  of  her  fame, 
so  that  there  is  every  prospect  of  happiness.  It  will  surprise 
many — people  concluded  that  at  her  age,  and  with  her  genius, 
the  men  would  have 

"  Left  her  alone  in  her  glory." 

I  am  glad  there  was  one  found  who  knew  better.  No 
woman  wanted  a  friend  more,  or  deserved  one  better ;  and  I 
sincerely  thank  God  she  has  found  such  a  friend,  and,  know- 
ing your  heart  and  mine  beat  alike  on  the  subject,  I  could 
not  forbear  telling  you  the  news  hot  and  hot. 

Mr.  Hall's  true  tale*  does  him  honor  for  its  selection  and 
its  telling,  and  it  will  do  good,  I  am  confident,  which  is  what 
he  most  desires — yours  is  as  good  as  Miss  Edgeworth's  best. 
I  shall  be  most  happy  to  see  you.  I  have  been  poorly,  but 
am  better.  The  house  is  like  a  fair,  with  pictures  going  in 
to  the  Suffolk-street  Gallery,  and  the  business  of  secretary- 
ship ;  and  I  am  writing,  when  I  can  write,  no  less  a  thing 
than  a  novel  of  three  volumes,  an  undertaking  I  wonder  I 
have  courage  for.  Give  my  kind  regards  to  Mr.  Hall  and 
Mrs.  Fielding,  and  believe  me  very  truly  and  with  every  good 
wish,  Your  faithful  B.  Hofland. 

Mrs.  Hofland  to  Miss  Mitford. 

[1829.] 
My  dear  Friend, — Mr.  Ackerman  has  just  sent  me  this 
parcel  to  forward  to  you,  and  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  writ- 

♦  "  A  Scene  of  Every-day  Occurrence,"  which,  together  with  one  of 
Mrs.  Hall's  "  Sketches  of  Irish  Character,"  appeared  in  Mr.  Hall's  mag- 
azine (the  Spirit  and  Manners  of  the  Age)  for  March,  1829. 


3  3^  Reported  Marriage. 

ing  to  the  doctor  to  inquire  after  you,  I  think  it  better  to 
send  with  the  parcel  that  inquiry,  which  I  can  no  longer 
withhold.  I  have  loved  you  too  long  and  too  well  to  sustain 
the  solicitude  which  belongs  to  uncertainty  any  longer :  are 
you  married  or  not? 

A  month  ago,  I  was  told  as  a  secret  that  you  were  on  the 
point  of  marriage  with  a  gentleman  of  your  own  family  whom 
you  had  not  seen  for  many  years,  but  who  had  loved  you 
all  this  time  ;  he  was  a  man  of  great  literary  taste,  landed 
property,  excellent  character,  and,  in  short,  all  one's  heart 
could  ask  for.  Then  I  was  told  "  to  look  in  the  papers  for 
three  successive  days,  and  I  should  be  sure  to  see  it."  I 
did  not  find  it,  and  I  saw  my  informer,  and  said  so.  The 
answer  was,  "  But  the  marriage  has  taken  place,  and  Miss 
Mitford,  now  Mrs.  Mitford,  has  gone  down  to  Northumber- 
land. I  had  it  from  the  gentleman's  own  brother,  who  is 
Captain  Mitford.  My  first  informer  was  young  Taylor,  who 
is,  I  believe,  very  distantly  related  to  Miss  Mitford,  but  nat- 
urally proud  of  the  alliance  with  her  cousin  ;  and  I  now  tell 
yon  positively  she  is  married,  and  gone  to  the  mansion-house 
of  her  husband,  which  is  a  very  pretty  place,  and  you  may 
rest  satisfied  she  is  in  every  sense  of  the  word  well  married, 
for  the  gentleman  complied  with  every  wish  of  her  heart  as 
to  settlements  and  all  that.  All  the  world  will  know  it 
soon,  but  they  have  been  particularly  private." 

This  was  Mr.  Lane's  news.  Well,  whilst  I  was  for  the  first 
time  rejoicing  in  the  "certainty  of  wakening  bliss"  on  this 
account,  comes  a  magazine  from  Mrs.  Hall,  in  which  I  found 
a  song  from  Miss  Mitford,  which  formed  the  best  possible 
comment  on  the  news ;  so  down  I  sat,  and  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Hall,  telling  her  that  she  might  be  happy  too;  and  at  home 
we  talked  of  nothing  else  for  two  or  three  days — but  on  the 
fourth  came  Frederick  with  a  grave  face,  saying  "  the  whole 
matter  must  be  a  mistake;  that  a  Captain  Mitford  had  mar- 
ried a  Miss  P'rances  Mitford,  and  taken  her  to  his  seat  in 
Northumberland,  was  certain,  but  it  was  utterly  unlikely  two 
gentlemen  should  have  both  married  wives  of  their  names 
and  journeyed  northward  the  same  week ;  and  that  he  was 
fully  persuaded,  in  short,  our  Miss  Mitford  was  still  the  wise 


Reported  Marriage.  137 

woman  he  believed  her  to  be."  Well,  this  plagued  me  all 
day  yesterday  after  I  heard  it,  and  this  morning  comes  Mrs. 
Hall,  who  says  her  husband  spoke  last  night  to  Mr.  Martin, 
whom  he  saw  in  the  House,  on  the  subject.  Mr.  M.  said, 
"  Miss  Mitford  is  not  yet  married,  but  she  is  engaged,  and  it 
will  take  place  soon" — he  heard  no  more. 

Mrs.  Hall  will  write  you,  for  she  wishes  to  dedicate  her 
new  book  to  you.  Mr.  Ackerman  desires  I  will  try  to  per- 
suade you  to  send  a  good  budget  for  both  his  annuals;  but 
if  you  are  really  going  to  take  him,  "who  is  come  home  with 
a  kind  heart  and  free,"  I  fear  you  will  do  but  little  in  that 
way. 

"  Rienzi "  is  performing  to-night  (by  special  desire).  I 
was  so  ill  of  a  cold  and  hoarseness,  which  confined  me,  I 
think,  for  five  weeks,  that  I  had  no  chance  of  getting  to  see 
your  picture  within  the  time,  which  vexed  me  much,  and  dis- 
appointed Mrs.  Hawkins,  who  was  to  have  gone  with  me  to 
Kensington. 

Well,  now,  I  don't  ask  for  any  particulars — indeed,  it 
seems  Mr.  M.  must  know,  and  that  you  are  not  married,  but, 
it  seems,  will  be  soon.  God  grant  you  may  be  most  happy, 
as  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  be.  Perhaps  Mr.  M.  may  not 
know,  after  all.  People  are  so  occupied  with  this  awful  ques- 
tion— all  else  seems  forgotten. 

Mr.  H.  is  perpetually  engaged  at  this  vile  gallery,  which 
never  did  him  any  good,  nor  ever  will.  We  are  all  better  in 
health.  I  trust  you  all  keep  well.  I  am  aware  it  is  a  time 
of  great  trial  to  you  all ;  it  must  be  so  even  with  the  happiest 
prospects.     My  prayers  and  every  affection  go  with  you. 

B.   HOFLAND. 

Mrs.  Hofland  seems  to  have  had  a  feminine  weakness  for 
marrying  her  friends,  for  she  wrote  to  Miss  Mitford  on  an- 
other occasion  that  Miss  Edgeworth  was  going  to  be  married 
to  her  (Miss  Edgeworth's)  stepmother's  father  ! 

Mrs,  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Cincinnati,  Jan.  20,  1829. 
I  believe,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  were  once  among  the 
short-sighted  mortals  who  deemed  me  in  the  worst  stage  of 


138  Mrs.  Trollope  in  America. 

lunacy  when  I  left  the  Old  World  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  New; 
but  as  the  wreath  of  bays  you  wear  has  never,  as  I  think,  im- 
peded one  glance  of  kindness  from  your  friendly  eye  towards 
the  ordinary  working-day  mortals  who  surround  you,  so  nei- 
ther have  your  many  and  absorbing  occupations  been  able 
to  make  you  forget  those  you  have  honored  by  the  name  of 
friend.  Let  me,  then,  repass  in  fancy  the  Atlantic  to  greet 
you ;  let  me  tell  you  that  I  never  see  a  paper  professing  to 
give  literary  news  from  England  without  anxiously  looking 
for  your  name.  I  have  read  whole  pages  of  extracts  from 
the  Annuals  and  "  Our  Village" — so  well  do  the  savages 
know  how  to  make  their  papers  sell — but  I  have  not  seen, 
what  I' chiefly  sought,  any  account  of  the  appearance  of  the 
noble  tragedy,  three  acts  of  which  you  read  to  me  when  I  last 
saw  you.  Our  dear  little  Marianne  writes  me  word  that  she 
believes  Young  is  going  to  play  "  Rienzi,"  I  know  there  is 
great  power  in  that  man,  when  he  is  warmed  sufficiently  to 
put  it  forth.  Write  to  me,  dear  friend,  I  entreat  you,  in  this 
remote  but  very  pretty  nest,  where  I  am  sitting  to  hatch 
golden  eggs  for  my  son  Henry.  A  letter  from  you  would  be 
like  the  first  warm  bright  sunbeam  after  a  long  dreary  win- 
ter. Yet  is  the  country  beautiful,  and  wonderful  in  its  rapid 
progress  towards  the  wealth  and  the  wisdom,  the  finery  and 
the  folly,  of  the  Old  World;  and  I  like  it  well— the  better, 
certainly,  that  while  Henry  is  making  money  I  am  saving  it; 
but,  alas  !  there  are  no  Mary  Mitfords,  no  Marianne  Sker- 
retts  here,  and  I  do  sometimes  languish  for  that  fine  full  flow 
of  London  talk  which  Johnson  describes. 

We  are  not,  however,  without  our  lions.  Miss  Wright,  to 
visit  whose  residence  was  one  of  my  inducements  to  cross 
the  Atlantic,  has  abandoned  for  the  present  (and,  as  I  think, 
forever)  her  scheme  of  forming  an  Eden  in  the  wilderness, 
and  cultivating  African  negroes  till  they  produced  accom- 
plished ladies  and  gentlemen.  She  is  now  devoting  all  the 
energy  of  her  extraordinary  mind  to  the  giving  of  public  lect- 
ures through  all  the  cities  of  the  Union.  Her  subject  is 
yust  Knowledge,  and  in  strains  of  the  highest  eloquence  she 
assures  the  assembled  multitudes  that  throng  to  hear  her  that 
man  was  made  for  happiness,  and  enjoyed  it  till  religion 


Mrs.  Trollope  in  America.  139 

snatched  it  from  him,  leaving  him  fantastic  hopes  and  sub- 
stantial fears  instead.  I  am  told  that  she  means  to  repeat 
her  lectures  through  England  and  France.  Wild,  and  often 
mischievous,  as  her  doctrines  are,  she  is  a  thing  to  wonder 
at,  and  you  must  hear  her,  if  you  can. 

Henry's  prospects  here  are,  I  think,  very  good;  but 
eighteen  is  too  young  to  be  left,  too  young  to  be  judged  of 
fixedly.  I  believe  him  to  be  very  steady,  but  I  must  watch  by 
him  for  a  year  or  two  longer,  I  think  Mr.  Trollope  returns 
to  us  next  year,  and  I  shall  then  be  able  to  decide  whether 
it  will  be  advisable  to  continue  here  or  not.  My  girls  have 
very  good  masters,  and  I  know  that  they  are  not  losing  their 
time.  Nothing  s\\z\\  keep  me  here  after  my  eldest  girl  is  six- 
teen— at  least,  nothing  that  I  can  possibly  foresee  or  imagine, 
as  I  think  I  owe  it  to  her  to  let  her  see  young  ladies'  day- 
light in  a  civilized  country. 

Oh,  my  dear  friend,  had  I  but  the  tenth  of  an  inch  of  the 
nib  of  your  pen,  what  pictures  might  I  draw  of  the  people 
here — so  very  queer,  so  very  unlike  any  other  thing  in  heav- 
en above  or  earth  below !  But  it  may  not  be.  I  can  look 
and  I  can  laugh,  but  the  power  of  describing  is  not  given  to 
above  half  a  dozen  in  a  century. 

\S\\\  you  accept,  during  my  absence,  of  my  eldest  son  as  a 
friend  and  enthusiastic  admirer?  I  pray  you  do.  I  cannot 
describe  to  you  the  earnestness  with  which  he  desires  this. 
He  is  immediately  to  be  entered  as  a  student  at  Lincoln's 
Inn — and,  poor  fellow,  he  means  to  be  a  good  boy  and  a 
lawyer — but  his  heart  and  soul  are  literary,  and  all  the  con- 
solation he  can  receive  under  his  enforced  studies  will,  and 
must  be,  derived  from  letters.  Will  you,  dear  friend,  receive 
him  among  yonx  friends  ? — let  him  be  your  slave  and  servant 
for  all  and  any  of  your  London  affairs;  and  if  you  find  him  a 
faithful  and  useful  servant,  pay  him  by  a  chat  or  a  line,  when 
your  leisure  serves.  I  think  there  is  some  soul  in  him,  but 
I  remember  that  I  am  a  Nemo,  and  will  not  rest  too  firmly 
on  my  own  judgment.  Pray  remember  me  very  kindly  to 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Mitford,  and  believe  me  very  affectionately 
yours,  F.  Trollope. 


140  Archdeaco7i  Wrangliani. 


Archdeacon  Wrangham  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Chester,  Feb.  21,  1829. 

Dear  Miss  Mitford, — Mr.  Goodlake,  in  reply  to  a  sug- 
gestion of  mine,  informs  me  that  he  has  already  sent  you 
one  of  the  copies  of  the  book  to  which  in  every  sense  you  are 
so  abundantly  entitled.  I  trust  you  will  think  it,  to  use  the 
technical  phrase,  "  well  got  up."  Mr.  Goodlake's  generous 
purpose  to  transmit  the  net  produce  to  Mrs.  Barnard,  who 
with  her  three  tender  orphans  is  but  ill  provided  for,  deserves 
and  has  our  warmest  gratitude. 

If  I  were  an  official  man,  with  the  butterflies  I  should  en- 
close my  letter  to  my  clergy  of  the  archdeaconry  of  the  East 
Riding  of  Yorkshire  on  the  Catholic  subject,  as  I  declined 
calling  them  together,  and  have  since  ostensibly — for  I  was 
in  the  minority  of  one  in  the  Chapter — concerned  in  an  anti- 
Catholic  petition.  I  thought  it  due  not  only  to  myself,  but 
to  them,  to  explain  both  what  was  the  real  state  of  the  case, 
and  upon  what  views  my  conduct  had  for  thirty  years  been 
uniformly  in  favor  of  the  claims.  However,  as  I  possess  no 
privilege  of  the  franking  kind,  I  fear  my  donation  and  your 
curiosity  (if  you  feel  any  upon  this  head)  must  undergo  a 
little  suspension. 

I  shall  not,  I  fear,  get  to  town  this  spring,  though  invited 
both  by  my  old  friend  and  constant  host,  Basil  Montagu,  to 
Bedford  Square,  and  by  my  gay  statesman  and  his  wife  to 
Wilton  Crescent.  But  new-furnishing  a  drawing-room  at  this 
place,  and  taking  possession  (at  a  great  expense)  of  a  new 
and  almost  incomeless  archdeaconry,  besides  a  heavy  sub- 
scription towards  repairing  the  woful  calamity  of  York  Min- 
ster, will  make  me  too  poor  for  London ;  or  I  should  con- 
sider it  one  of  my  first  pleasures  there  to  find  out  Mr.  Lucas. 
Your  character  of  him  as  an  artist,  and  also  as  a  man,  would 
entitle  him,  independently  of  my  wish  to  see  your  very  self* 
to  my  earliest  attention.  But  /  too  must  wait  for  more  auspi- 
cious circumstances.  I  remain,  however,  dear  Miss  Mitford, 
Ever  yours  most  truly,  F.  Wrangham. 

*  Referring  to  Lucas's  portrait  of  Miss  Mitford. 


Mrs,  Hall.  141 

Mrs.  Hall  to  Miss  Mitford,  Three-mile  Cross,  Reading. 

April  28,  1829. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  trust  you  will  find  nothing 
in  my  "  Sketches  of  Irish  Character"  to  offend  your  political 
feelings.  I  can  love  a  Catholic  as  well  as  a  Protestant,  al- 
though I  think  we  t>ught  to  have  kept  the  upperhand  with 
them.  However,  I  care  naught  about  the  matter,  except  as 
far  as  it  vexes  my  much -respected  friend  Mr.  Sadler,  who 
unites  fine  mental  qualities  to  one  of  the  most  noble  and  yet 
simple  hearts  in  the  world. 

Miss  Smyth's  album  is  quite  safe,  but  the  fact  is  we  wished 
to  enlarge  it  by  the  addition  of  some  very  pretty  pictures.  I 
found  I  could  not  paste  them  neatly  in,  so  I  took  the  liberty 
of  placing  them  properly,  and  then  getting  all  r<?-bound  to- 
gether, which  is  much  the  best  way.  I  know  she  will  not  be 
angry  at  this,  if  you  make  a  pretty  speech  about  it  for  me, 
and  I  assure  you  every  portion  of  the  book  is  preserved  with 
the  greatest  care.  Westley  says  I  shall  have  it  back  in  ten 
days,  and  then  it  shall  be  left  in  Printing  House  Square,  as 
you  directed. 

Dear  Mrs.  Hofland  spent  an  evening  with  us  lately.  I 
wish  you  had  been  of  the  party.  I  am  going  to  spend  a  few 
days  with  our  friends  the  Carnes  at  Blackhealh.  I  suppose 
you  know  his  "  Tales  from  the  West."  They  are  very  hos- 
pitable, nice  people,  and  you  meet  everybody  (literary)  at  his 
house. 

I  have  not  time  to  enlarge  my  epistle,  but  conclude,  re- 
questing you  to  accept  "  lots  "  of  love  from  us  all.  I  finished 
my  last  tale,  "  Peter  the  Prophet,"  last  night. 

Most  affectionately,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Your  sincere  Anna  Maria  Hall. 

Miss  Strickland  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Reydon  Hall,  near  Wangfield,  Suffolk,  June  2,  1829. 

To  Miss  Mary  Russell  Mitford. 
Thy  "  sister  poetess,"  thou  gifted  one  ! 
Never  for  me  will  lyre  like  thine  be  strung; 
Never  to  me  will  Nature  teach  the  art 


142  Poetry  by  Mifs  Strickland. 

To  sketch  the  living  portrait  on  the  heart; 
With  her  own  magic  pencil  to  portray 
The  storms  and  sunshine  of  life's  varied  day, 
The  fond  anticipations,  hopes,  and  fears 
That  gladden  youth,  or  shade  our  riper  years  ; 
With  Nature's  untaught  eloquence  to  trace 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  a  fallen  race. 
Till  the  heart's  fountains  at  thy  page  run  o'er ; 
We  know  the  author,  and  the  scene  adore. 
From  infancy  my  steps  have  wandered  far 
Through  flowery  fields,  beneath  Eve's  dewy  star. 
And  I  have  flung  me  on  the  earth's  green  breast, 
Till  my  heart  heaved  against  the  sod  I  press'd, 
And  tears  of  rapture  blinded  fast  the  sight 
Of  eyes  that  ached  with  fulness  of  delight. 
In  this  our  souls  are  kindred,  for  I  love 
The  flowing  corn-field  and  the  shady  grove, 
The  balmy  meadow  and  the  blossom'd  thorn, 
The  cool  fresh  breezes  of  the  early  morn, 
The  crimson  banner  of  the  glowing  west 
Flung  o'er  the  day-god,  as  he  sinks  to  rest ; 
The  witching  beauty  of  the  twilight  hour 
In  hazel  copse,  green  dell,  or  woodland  bower ; 
The  plaintive  music  of  the  wind-stirr'd  trees, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  melody  of  bees ; 
The  kine  deep  lowing  on  the  marshy  mere. 
The  sheep-bell  tinkling  on  the  common  near ; 
The  reaper's  shout,  the  sound  of  busy  flail. 
The  milk-maid  singing  o'er  her  flowing  pail ; 
The  voice  of  ocean  heaving  in  my  view, 
Reveal'd  through  waving  boughs  in  robe  of  blue. 
Or  when  the  moon  has  risen  high  and  bright. 
Girdling  the  east  with  belt  of  living  light. 
'Mid  Nature's  solitude  my  days  have  pass'd ; 
Here  would  I  live — here  breathe  in  peace  my  last ! 
Fame  is  a  dream !  the  praise  of  man  as  brief 
As  morning  dew  upon  the  folded  leaf; 
The  summer  sun  exhales  the  sparkling  tear, 
And  leaves  no  trace  of  its  existence  here — 
That  world  I  once  admired  I  now  would  flee, 
And  to  win  heaven  would  court  obscurity. 

Susanna  Strickland.* 

This  Miss  Strickland,  a  sister  of  the  celebrated  authoress, 
married  eventually  a  Mr.  Moodie,  author  of  "Ten  Years  in 

*  There  are  references  to  this  poem  on  page  149. 


Charles  I.  143 

South  Africa,"  and  emigrated  to  Canada.  In  her  work, 
"Roughing  it  in  tlie  Bush,"  she  gives  a  most  discouraging 
account  of  the  miseries  to  be  endured  in  colonial  life  by 
those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  the  refinements  of  civ- 
ilization. She  wrote  songs  which  became  very  popular  in 
Canada. 

Mr.  Barnes  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Tuesday,  July  14,  1829.    48  Nelson  Square. 

My  dear  Madam, — I  am  very  sorry  that  you  have  had 
the  trouble  of  writing  an  explanatory  letter,  though  I  must 
always  be  pleased  to  receive  any  communication  from  you. 
Dr.  Mitford  has  misunderstood  my  meaning.  Having  heard 
that  you  had  finished  two  tragedies,  I  asked,  with  an  inter- 
est which  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  who  has  seen  and 
read  "Rienzi"  not  to  feel,  when  either  of  them  was  likely 
to  appear.  Dr.  Mitford  then  told  me  of  the  impediments 
which  had  been  offered  to  the  representation  of  "  Charles 
I."  I  observed  that  such  an  opposition  was  the  more  ab- 
surd as  there  was  already  a  tragedy  with  that  title,  which 
had  been  acted  without  scruple  above  fifty  years  ago.  Dr. 
Mitford  then  proposed  to  favor  me  with  a  perusal  of  your 
tragedy,  which,  of  course,  I  was  happy  to  accept,  though,  at 
the  same  time,  I  expressed  considerable  apprehension  for 
the  safety  of  the  manuscript,  should  it  have  to  travel  back- 
wards and  forwards  from  Berkshire  to  London. 

This,  as  well  as  I  can  recollect,  is  the  substance  of  the 
conversation  to  which  your  letter  refers,  I  will  add  that  I 
fully  appreciate  the  justice  of  the  reasons  which  you  urge 
against  any  public  allusion  (at  least  at  present)  to  the  con- 
duct of  the  licenser.  I  need  not  say  how  proud  I  should 
be  to  express  publicly  as  well  as  privately  my  great  admira- 
tion of  your  extraordinary  talents  —  allow  me  to  add,  not 
even  yet  developed  to  the  full  extent  of  which  they  are  ca- 
pable ;  but  I  know  well,  what  you  accurately  describe,  the 
necessity  of  "bending  to  the  various  difficulties  that  beset 
a  dramatic  writer."  I  think,  too,  that  there  is  some  loss  of 
the  dignity  of  a  superior  writer  in  appealing  to  the  public 
for  sympathy.  Miss  Mitford  is  in  a  condition  to  demand 
public  admiration,  not  to  solicit  public  compassion. 


144  Bishop  Cotton. 

Mrs.  Barnes,  as   well  as   myself,  regretted   greatly  your 
absence  last  Saturday ;  she  is  very  grateful  for  your  kind 
remembrance,  and  very  proud  of  your  good  opinion. 
I  am,  with  great  esteem,  your  faithful  servant, 

F.  Barnes. 

Mr.  Barnes  was  editor  of  the  Times,  Miss  Mitford  seems 
to  have  met  him  at  Mr.  Perry's. 

The  following  is  written  in  a  round  schoolboy  hand,  and 
undated.  It  is,  however,  interesting,  and  Miss  Mitford's 
reference  to  it  is  quoted  by  Dean  Stanley  in  the  "Life  of 
George  Cotton,  Bishop  of  Calcutta."  She  wanted  for  one 
of  her  plays  "The  Ban  of  the  Empire,"  and  after  having 
fruitlessly  inquired  among  her  literary  friends,  German  his- 
torians, and  law  professors,  obtained  it  from  a  boy  in  these 
words : 

G.  E.  Lynch  Cotton  to  Miss  Mitford. 

St.  Peter's  College,  Westminster,  July  20. 

Madam,  —  Having  understood  from  a  friend  that  you 
wished  to  obtain  the  words  of  "  The  Ban  of  the  Church  of 
the  German  Empire,"  I  take  the  liberty  of  sending  them  to 
you,  and  I  hope  you  will  find  them  correct.  It  is  one  of 
the  earliest  examples  of  this  mode  of  proscription,  and  was 
launched  against  the  Duke  of  Suabia:  "We  declare  thy 
wife  a  widow,  thy  children  orphans,  and  discard  thee,  in  the 
devil's  name,  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth!" 

You  will  find  it  in  "Les  Anecdotes  Germaniques,"  page 
151,  and  as  I  have  experienced  so  much  pleasure  from  the 
perusal  and  representation  of  your  beautiful  tragedies,  I 
shall  have  great  satisfaction  in  being  of  the  smallest  use  to 
you,  and  hope,  as  I  have  no  other  mode  of  conveyance,  that 
you  will  not  think  me  an  intrusive  schoolboy. 

Allow  me  to  remain,  madam,  your  obedient  servant, 

George  Edward  Lynch  Cotton. 

The  above  was  written  in  1829.  Miss  Mitford  informed 
him  in  her  reply  that  she  wanted  the  actual  German  words,  and 
those  he  shortly  afterwards  sent  her.  "  We  shall  hear  of  that 
youth  himself  in  literature  some  day  or  other,"  she  observes. 


Mrs.  Hofland.  145 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LETfERS    FROM    MrS.    HoFLAND,   MiSS    STRICKLAND,   DoUGLAS    JeR- 

ROLD,  Miss  Sedgwick,  and  Mrs.  Trollope. 

Mrs.  Hofland  to  Miss  Mitford. 

"  Who  can  write  to  me  on  pijik  paper,  scented  ?  Bless 
me,  how  it  is  perfumed  !" 

"Some  magnificent  blue,  of  course,"  said  Hofland. 

The  letter  was  opened ;  your  hand,  my  dear  friend,  was 
seen,  and  I  said,  "  How  could  Miss  Mitford  think  of  send- 
ing such  ?ifine  lady  as  this  must  be  here  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  she  should  not.  She  pays  us  the  com- 
pliment of  considering  us  a  lion  and  lioness  in  one  cage." 

Thus  stands  the  matter — Mrs.  Morgan  says  "  she  will  be 
here  to-morrow  at  twelve,"  and  will  take  charge  of  a  letter 
to  you  j  so  I,  at  twelve  at  night  (or  after)  write  this  note  to 
be  ready  for  her.  My  master  goes  off  a-fishing*  at  six  in 
the  morning,  and  will,  of  course,  not  be  seen,  which  is  a  sad 
reverse  of  the  order  of  things,  for  he's  quite  a  man  to  be 
exhibited  to  ladies  who  write  on  pink  paper ;  and  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  his  wife  is  a  thing  to  be  hidden  in  any 
hole  or  corner,  where  all  women  are  thrown.  Certes,  one 
less  likely  to  please  the  fashionable  and  reward  the  fastid- 
ious could  not  be  selected  from  the  many  who  may  now  be 
found. 

I  grieve  that  you  have  been  all  ill,  and  I  can  well  sympa- 
thize with  you,  though  my  grand,  my  unceasing  object  is  for 
the  present  in  a  state  of  relief;  but  Tom,  my  dear  little 
Tom,  whom  I  love  with  such  pity  and  such  peculiar  and,  I 
fear,  excessive  feeling  as  few  people  can  conceive,  is  in  a 
deplorable  state.     He  has  got  a  white  swelling  in  the  knee, 

*  lie  wrote  a  work  on  angling,  a  sport  of  which  he  was  very  fond. 

7 


146  State  of  London. 

and  it  is  an  equal  thing  whether  he  ca7i  or  cannot  weather  it. 
I  am  going  to  the  sea  with  him  soon ; — we  are  under  the 
care  of  Scott,  of  Bromley,  a  successful  kind  of  half-quack, 
of  whom  you  have  heard.  The  child  sleeps  with  me — leans 
on  me  for  all  his  comfort.  He  can  move  a  little  on  crutches, 
and  his  patience  and  cheerfulness,  his  delicacy  and  meek- 
ness, make  him  altogether  the  most  affecting  creature  in  the 
world.  Indeed,  there  is  an  interest  in  his  manners,  and  his 
talents  too,  which  renders  one  inevitably  superstitious.  I 
feel  sure  he  will  be  taken,  but  it  may  be  long,  very  long, 
first. 

I  hear  from  Mrs.  Hall  you  are  getting  on  with  the  tragedy, 
but  hindered  by  the  annuals,  which  are,  in  fact,  "plagues  of 
the  land."  Nobody  knows  the  miseries  of  writing  to  prints 
but  those  who  do  it,  and  my  master  cannot  see  this  for  a 
moment,  and  thinks  I  ought  to  do  whatever  is  asked. 

I  think  Mrs.  Hall's  book  beautiful,  but  am  not  in  love 
with  her  dedicatory  letter ;  it  is  meagre. 

In  London  all  is  misery,  unmixed  misery.  There  has 
been  no  such  time  in  my  life,  though  I  remember  much  that 
was  alarming.  I  think  the  misery  may  in  a  great  measure 
be  traced  to  the  avarice  and  ambition  of  the  trading  world, 
who,  in  their  haste  to  be  rich,  have  drawn  the  poor  to  become 
manufacturers,  who  ought  to  have  been  agriculturists ;  worked 
too  hard,  overstocked  the  markets,  and  then  thrown  their 
tools  out  of  employment,  and,  of  course,  into  extreme  misery. 
People  may  reason  as  they  will,  but  this  is  the  true  source  of 
the  mischief.  Had  they  gone  on  moderately,  masters  and 
men  would  alike  have  prospered,  but,  as  the  Bible  says, 
"  they  made  haste  to  be  rich,  and  pierced  themselves  through 
with  many  sorrows ;"  this,  and  marrying  soon,  and  getting 
children  without  end,  has  ruined  the  country,  yet  Thirlwall 
two  years  since  told  me  "  population  was  failing."  What  a 
fool,  we  are  eaten  up  by  multitudes. 

I  went  to  the  Academy  to  look  at  you,  and  was  vexed  to 
see  you  stuck  up  at  the  top  of  the  room,  and  so  feebly 
painted  the  whole  was  lost.  The  figure  is  well  managed, 
but  the  hat  badly  fixed  ;  the  likeness  is  unquestionably  well 
preserved,  and  very  agreeably  given,  but  in  its  position  the 


Mifs  S.  Strickland.  147 

painter,  poor  young  man,  received  a  great  blow,  which  even 
the  Times's  praise  cannot  soften.     The  Academy  folks  are 
sad  folks — cruel  ones  to  many  a  clever  young  man. 
With  a  thousand  good  wishes  and  kind  regards, 

Believe  me,  your  truly  affectionate 

B.  HOFLAND.* 

P.S. — What  a  monstrous  advantage  those  "Irish"  writers 
have  in  their  brogue. 

The  picture  above  mentioned  was  by  Lucas,  who  was  in- 
troduced to  Miss  Mitford  by  Mr.  Milton,  Mrs.  Trollope's 
brother,  one  of  his  earliest  patrons. 

Miss  Strickland  to  Miss  Mitford,  Three  Mile  Cross, 
Reading. 

Reydon  Hall,  July  31,  1829. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Your  kind  and  generous  let- 
ter, while  it  afforded  me  the  deepest  pleasure,  affected  me 
almost  to  tears,  so  totally  undeserving  do  I  feel  myself  to 
be  of  so  great  and  distinguished  a  favor.  I  can  scarcely 
believe  that  it  is  to  one  so  little  known  and  who  has  such 
slight  claims  to  literary  merit  that  Miss  Mitford  has  ad- 
dressed herself  in  such  friendly  and  liberal  terms.  I  fancy 
you  mistake  me  for  my  second  sister,  Agnes  Strickland,  the 
authoress  of  *'  Worcester  Field,"  and  the  '*  Seven  Ages  of 
Woman,"  and  many  other  minor  poems  that  have  appeared 
in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  and  the  annuals,  and  who  is 
a  very  talented  and  accomplished  woman,  quite  the  reverse 
of  the  plain,  matter-of-fact  country  girl,  her  j^oungest  sister, 
who  is  now  writing  to  you. 

My  name  is  almost  unknown  to  the  world.  A  solitary 
piece  of  poetry  in  the  "Pledge  of  Friendship"  for  1828,  a 
few  stanzas  in  "Friendship's  Offering"  for  this  year,  entitled 
"There's  Joy,"  and  some  sketches  from  the  country  both  in 
prose  and  verse,  that  have  from  time  to  time  been  inserted 

*  This  letter  was  marked  on  the  back  "  Honored  by  Mrs.  Morgan," 
but  that  lady  has  crossed  out  the  word  "honored,"  and  substituted  "for- 
gotten." 


148  Literary  Ambition. 

by  my  friend,  Mr.  Harral,  in  "  La  Belle,"  are  all  the  articles 
of  mine  that  ever  came  before  the  public  with  my  name  or 
initials  appended  to  them.  I  candidly  confess  that  I  con- 
sider none  of  these  worthy  of  notice,  and  they  were  written 
more  with  the  view  of  serving  several  dear  friends  to  whom 
I  was  tenderly  attached  than  with  any  idea  of  establishing  my 
reputation  as  an  authoress.  I  cannot,  therefore,  appropriate 
to  myself  your  flattering  opinion  of  my  merit,  though  I  am  not 
less  gratified  with  the  kindness  and  benevolence  which  in- 
duced you  to  give  such  encouragement  to  a  young  and  name- 
less authoress  to  pursue  her  literary  career. 

You  have  written  to  me  as  a  friend,  and  I  shall  reply  to  your 
kind  queries  with  the  same  frankness  with  which  I  should 
answer  an  old  and  valued  correspondent.  I  have  been  one 
of  Fancy's  spoiled  and  wayward  children,  and  from  the  age  of 
twelve  years  have  roamed  through  the  beautiful  but  delusive 
regions  of  Romance,  entirely  to  gratify  my  restless  imagina- 
tion, to  cull  all  that  was  bright  and  lovely,  and  to  strew  with 
flowers  the  desert  path  of  life.  I  have  studied  no  other  vol- 
ume than  Nature,  have  followed  no  other  dictates  but  those 
of  my  own  heart,  and  at  the  age  of  womanhood  I  find  myself 
totally  unfitted  to  mingle  with  the  world.  I  perceive  with 
regret  that  I  must  hereafter  render  an  account  to  my  Crea- 
tor for  those  precious  hours  and  talents  that  were  wasted  in 
forming  those  vain  theories,  those  fanciful  dreams  of  happi- 
ness that  have  faded  in  my  grasp.  Experience  has  traced 
upon  the  tablets  of  my  soul,  with  many  tears,  that 

"There's  nothing  true  but  heaven." 
A  desire  for  fame  appears  to  me  almost  inseparable  from  an 
author,  especially  if  that  author  is  a  poet.  I  was  painfully 
convinced  that  this  was  one  of  my  besetting  sins.  You 
would  have  pitied  my  weakness  could  you  have  read  my 
heart  at  the  moment  of  receiving  your  sweet  verses,  directed 
in  your  own  hand  to  me.  I  had  always  ranked  Miss  Mit- 
ford  as  one  of  the  first  of  our  female  writers,  and  though  my 
knowledge  of  your  writing  was  entirely  confined  to  the 
sketches  in  the  annuals,  and  to  some  extracts  from  the 
"  Foscari,"  these  were  sufficient  to  make  me  feel  the  deep- 
est interest  in  your  name,  and  even  to  rejoice  in  the  success 


Literary  Ambition.  149 

that  ever  attended  the  publication  of  your  works.  But  when 
you  condescended  to  place  me  in  the  rank  with  yourself, 
all  my  ambitious  feelings  rose  up  in  arms  against  me,  till, 
ashamed  of  my  vanity  and  presumption,  I  stood  abashed  in 
my  own  eyes,  and  felt  truly  ashamed  of  being  so  deeply 
enamored  with  a  title  I  did  not  deserve,  and  I  felt  that  that 
insatiable  thirst  for  fame  was  not  only  a  weak  but  a  criminal 
passion,  which,  if  indulged,  might  waken  in  my  breast  those 
feelings  of  envy  and  emulation  which  I  abhor,  and  which 
never  fail  to  debase  a  generous  mind ;  conscious,  too,  that  I 
had  employed  those  abilities  with  which  Heaven  had  en- 
dowed me,  doubtless  for  a  wise  and  useful  purpose,  entirely 
for  my  own  amusement,  without  any  wish  to  benefit  or  im- 
prove my  fellow-creatures,  I  resolved  to  give  up  my  pursuit 
of  fame,  withdraw  entirely  from  the  scene  of  action,  and, 
under  another  name,  devote  my  talents  to  the  service  of  ray 
God. 

It  was  this  determination  which  induced  me  to  conclude 
the  few  lines  I  ventured  to  address  to  you  in  the  manner  I 
did  ;  and  could  you  read  my  mind,  and  enter  fully  into  my 
motives  for  seeking  to  withdraw  from  all  notoriety,  I  feel 
confident  that  I  should  gain  from  you,  my  dear  Miss  Mit- 
ford,  an  approving  smile. 

Mrs.  Hemans  is  indeed  a  child  of  song — a  complete  mis- 
tress of  the  lyre.  She  possesses  at  all  times  the  key  of  my 
heart.  It  will  require  another  age  to  give  birth  to  another 
Felicia  Hemans ! 

Should  I  ever  again  visit  London,  I  should  indeed  con- 
sider it  a  privilege  to  be  allowed  a  friendly  interchange  of 
hands  with  Miss  Mitford,  an  honor  which  a  few  months  ago 
I  should  not  have  imagined  it  possible  for  me  to  expect,  and 
which  I  do  not  deserve  from  any  individual  merit  of  my  own, 
but  owe  entirely  to  your  generosity. 

I  have  pictured  to  myself  your  little  cottage,  and  your  poor 
lame  maid  Olive — "is  it  not  Olive  Hathaway?" — who  is  a 
great  favorite  of  mine.  And  now,  I  almost  fancy  I  see  your 
surprise,  but  I  cannot  tell  you  now  how  I  came  to  know 
your  maid  Olive.  Should  you  ever  visit  the  eastern  coast 
of  Suffolk,  my  mother,  my  sister,  and  myself  would  feel  our- 


150  Actrefses. 

selves  highly  honored  by  Miss  Mitford  becoming  an  inmate 
of  our  old-fashioned  mansion.  The  country  is  well  wooded, 
but  flat,  and  is  not  remarkable  for  its  picturesque  scenery, 
though  it  abounds  with  such  sweet  woodland  lanes  as  you  so 
inimitably  describe.  Sometimes  I  think  that  you  have  ram- 
bled down  all  my  dear  old  lanes,  about  which  I  could  preach 
for  an  hour.  Our  coast  is  interesting,  from  the  many  beau- 
tiful and  venerable  relics  of  antiquity  which  form  the  chief 
attraction  to  strangers.  The  ruins  of  Dunwich,  Covehythe, 
Walberswick,  Blythburgh  (which  still  contains  the  tomb  of 
Ina,  king  of  East  Anglia),  and  Leiston  Abbey,  would  not 
fail  to  excite  your  attention.  But  I  must  not  dwell  upon  my 
favorite  spots  —  spots  endeared  to  me  from  infancy  —  but 
hasten  to  conclude  this  unceremonious  epistle,  which  I  hope 
my  dear  friend  and  yours,  Mr.  Pringle,  will  obtain  a  frank 
for;  and  with  sincere  wishes  for  your  mother's  health  and 
your  own,  believe  me,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  with  a  grateful 
sense  of  your  kindness. 

Your  truly  obliged  friend, 

Susanna  Strickland. 

Mr.  Wills  to  Miss  Mitford. 

5  Great  Queen  Street,  Lincoln's  Inn, 
Oct.  12,  1829, 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  availed  myself  of  the  very 
first  opportunity  after  my  indisposition  to  witness  the  Juliet 
of  Miss  Fanny  Kemble,  in  order  that  I  might  judge  for  my- 
self whether  all  the  good  and  civil  things  that  were  said  and 
written  of  her  were  founded  in  fact,  and,  although  I  cannot 
go  the  lengths  of  some  of  her  admirers,  yet  I  have  no  scruple 
in  affording  her  the  rank  of  the  very  best  actress  since  Miss 
O'Neill.  Her  peculiar  forte  to  me  seems  to  be  a  thorough 
legitimate,  downright  thick  and  thin  dash  sort  of  style — a 
fearful  experiment,  but  perhaps  justified  by  the  vast  capabil- 
ities of  the  aspirant.  She  has  all  the  right  points  about  her, 
or,  as  our  emerald  friends  would  say,  she  has  the  makings  of 
an  actress.  In  short,  she  is  in  the  Siddonic  school  (an  ex- 
cellent one,  certainly),  but  that  is  all.  In  person  she  is  in- 
finitely inferior  to  Miss  Phillips,  though  both  have  bad  arms 


Actrefses.  151 

— the  former  round,  red,  and  milk-maidish ;  the  latter  lean, 
long,  and — but  no  matter  for  the  other  "  and  " — I  am  getting 
ungallant.  Contrasting  the  two,  the  summary  is  this  :  Miss 
K.  has  grandeur  of  expression  and  action,  Miss  P.  delicacy 
and  softness,  which  will  ever  render  her  superior  in  the  more 
pathetic  walks  of  the  drama.  Had  Miss  P.  the  o\\v&x's power, 
and  the  other  Miss  P.'s  pathos,  each  and  the  other  would  be 
tremendous  creatures,  but  at  present  Miss  K.  stands  a  very 
good  chance  of  obtaining  the  highest  rewards  in  theatrical 
ambition.  This  surely  will  make  for  you — for  from  what  I 
have  seen  I  should  not  hesitate  to  trust  Inez  to  her  keeping. 

I  intended  last  night  to  have  witnessed  the  new  tragedy 
of  "  Epicurus,"  by  Mr.  Leslie — do  you  know  him  ? — but  in 
consequence  of  the  dying  state  of  Mr.  Wallack's  eldest  son, 
he  is  in  such  a  distracted  state  of  mind  that  at  five  o'clock  the 
piece  was  obliged  to  be  changed.  Only  think  of  the  state 
of  mind  of  the  author.    God  be  praised  'twas  not  your  piece ! 

I  saw  "  Rienzi "  on  Thursday,  to  which  there  was  the  best 
house  (though  not  too  good)  of  the  season,  excepting  the 
opening  night.  Some  of  the  business  is  advantageously  al- 
tered. Miss  P.'s  action  is  improved,  and  Mr.  Young  as  good 
and  bad  as  usual. 

There  has  been  a  Miss  Forrest  roaring  through  Ophelia 
like  a  town  bull  in  a  thunder-storm.  I  need  not  say  I  should 
like  an  opportunity  of  reading  "Otto"  as  well  as  "Inez." 
Can  you  indulge  me  with  convenience  ? 

I  am  greatly  obliged  by  the  doctor's  present.  What  about 
Cumberland  ?  he  says  you  have  had  fifty  or  sixty  copies.  I 
have  just  heard  there  is  a  new  tragedy  in  Covent  Garden 
ready  for  Miss  K. — surely  it  can't  be  yours.  Mrs.  W.'s  love 
and  remembrances  to  all. 

Believe  me,  most  sincerely  yours, 

Wills.* 

Mr.  S.  C.  Hall  to  Miss  Mitford. 

2  East  Place  [1830?]. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  am  "perplexed  in  the  ex- 
treme," and  now  know  not  what  to  do.     When  your  first  two 

*  The  initials  of  the  Christian  name  are  illegible. 


152  Mr.  Hairs  A  niiual. 

sheets  came,  I  sent  them  to  the  printer,  and  had  them  set. 
When  the  last  arrived,  I  felt  that  I  should  incur  much  danger 
in  publishing  it,  because  of  its  want  of  moral,  or,  rather,  its 
prejudicial  effect  —  which  I  knew  well  my  readers  would 
charge  upon  it.  I,  of  course,  allude  to  the  conclusion,  which 
describes  a  young  couple  as  having  deceived  their  parents, 
privately  married,  and  pursued  a  course  of  deception.  Now 
you  will  believe  me,  I  know,  when  I  state  how  deeply  it  dis- 
tresses me  to  write  thus — I  am  more  vexed  and  grieved 
than  I  can  tell  you — but  I  have  a  v^xy peculiar  class  to  cater 
for,  and  this  year  there  is  a  rival  religious  annual.  I  am, 
therefore,  bound  to  be  especially  careful,  and  if  you  knew 
the  tales  in  my  former  volumes  that  have  been  cavilled  at, 
you  would  laugh  at  the  cavillers  and  pity  me.  I  must  not, 
however — I  dare  not — run  any  risk. 

Do  not  think  ill  of  me ;  do  not  be  much  annoyed  with  me, 
for,  in  truth,  I  cannot  help  myself.  Of  course,  my  trouble 
does  not  arise  from  any  fear  of  inconveniencing  you,  because 
you  have  too  many,  and  not  too  few,  sources  by  which  your 
writing  can  be  disposed  of. 

Now,  to  another  matter.  I  shall  be  greatly  disappointed, 
indeed,  if  my  volume  has  nothing  from  your  pen — for  many 
weighty  reasons.  Can  you,  then,  within  ten  days  give  me 
half  a  dozen  pages  of  a  village  sketch  ? 

I  must  leave  this  matter  with  you,  but  pray  write  me  by 
the  next  post,  for,  in  truth,  I  feel  more  vexed  than  I  hope 
you  can  do. 

With  my  wife's  affectionate  regards,  believe  me, 
Ever  faithfully  and  sincerely  yours, 

S.  C.  Hall. 

Mr.  S.  C.  Hall  was  at  this  time  editor  of  the  Amulet,  a 
religious  annual,  which  flourished  from  1826  to  1836.  Miss 
Mitford  generally  wrote  for  it,  and  among  the  other  contribu- 
tors were  Buhver,  L.  E.  L.,  Lady  Blessington,  Mary  Howitt, 
"  Barry  Cornwall,"  Mrs.  Hofland,  and  Emma  Roberts. 

The  next  fragment  refers  to  the  stories  of  gypsies  and  of 
Grace  Neville  in  "  Our  Village."  The  latter  had  a  ragged 
boy  who  carried  love-letters  for  her. 


Canada.  153 

Miss  Strickland  fo  Miss  Mitford. 
There  is  another  very  interesting  gypsy  family  of  the  name 
of  Chilcot — ditto  Barvvell ;  perhaps  you  may  have  met  them 
in  their  peregrinations.  In  your  delightful  sketch  of  Grace 
Neville  I  was  much  amused  by  the  donkey  messengers. 
Such  mercuries  are  common  in  Suffolk,  and  I  greeted  your 
boys  as  old  acquaintances.  My  eldest  brother,  who  is  set- 
tled in  Upper  Canada,  was  a  famous  cricket-player,  and  I 
used  often  by  his  earnest  solicitations  to  walk  across  South- 
wold  Common,  to  witness  his  dexterity,  and  I  felt  no  small 
degree  of  interest  in  his  eclat.  He  was  a  fine,  handsome  fel- 
low, and  promises  to  do  something  for  himself  in  the  country 
to  which  he  has  emigrated,  and  to  which  I  often  feel  strongly 
induced  to  follow  him,  having  many  dear  friends  in  that  land 
"  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood."  He  gives  me  such  superb 
descriptions  of  Canadian  scenery  that  I  often  long  to  accept 
his  invitation  to  join  him,  and  to  traverse  the  country  with 
him  in  his  journeys  for  Government.  But  I  fear  my  heart 
would  fail  me  when  the  moment  of  separation  came,  and  my 
native  land  would  appear  more  beautiful  than  any  other  spot 
in  the  world,  when  I  was  called  upon  to  leave  it.  Yes,  I  do 
agree  with  you  that  a  woman  would  miss  the  smile  of  affec- 
tion more  than  all  the  applause  of  the  world.  I  know  I 
would  rather  give  up  the  pen  than  lose  the  affection  of  my 
beloved  sister  Catherine,  who  is  dearer  to  me  than  all  the 
world — my  monitress,  my  dear  and  faithful  friend.  She  is 
the  author  of  several  popular  works  for  children :  "  The  Step- 
brothers," "Young  Emigrants,"  "Juvenile  Forget-me-not" 
(the  first  series),  and  many  other  works  of  the  same  nature. 
But  it  is  not  for  her  talents  that  I  love  ray  Kate,  it  is  for  her- 
self. She  is  absent  now  for  a  few  days,  and  I  feel  lost  and 
lonely  without  her ;  she  is  the  youngest  of  the  six  girls,  next 
to  me.  We  are  all  authoresses  but  Sarah,  the  third ;  but 
then  she  is  a  beauty,  and  such  a  sweet  girl  withal,  that  every- 
body loves  her,  and  I  often  think  she  is  the  best  off,  for  she 
has  elegant  tastes  and  pursuits,  and  no  clashing  interests  in- 
terfere with  the  love  her  sisters  bear  to  her.  I  am  writing 
you  a  sad,  egotistical  letter;  my  tongue  and  my  pen  never 


1 54  Critiques. 

know  when  to  lie  still,  and  I  quite  forget  your  dignity  as  a 
celebrated  writer  when  I  am  scribbling  to  you  as  a  friend. 
Mr.  Pringle  will,  I  know,  kindly  enclose  this  in  the  next 
packet  he  transmits  to  you.  In  the  meantime,  believe  me, 
dear  Miss  Mitford,  to  remain, 

Your  grateful  and  sincere  friend, 

Susanna  Strickland. 

The  following  letter  is  interesting  as  having  been  written 
by  Douglas  Jerrold  when  he  was  a  young  and  struggling 
author,  shortly  after  the  appearance  of  his  successful  drama, 
"Black-eyed  Susan." 

Douglas  Jerrold  to  Miss  Mitford. 

4  Augustus  Square,  Regent's  Park  [1830]. 

My  dear  Madam, — May  I  be  allowed  to  offer  my  sincere 
expressions  of  condolence  for  the  loss  you  have  so  recently 
sustained,  and  to  venture  a  hope  of  your  timely  recovery  from 
the  effects  of  so  afflicting  a  visitation.* 

That  the  dramas,  which  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  intrud- 
ing upon  your  notice,  receive  your  commendation,  is  to  me 
a  subject  of  pride  and  pleasure :  for,  wanting  the  suffrages  of 
the  few,  popular  success  is  as  empty  as  it  is  frequently  un- 
merited. 

Long  before  I  could  hope  that  any  effort  of  mine  would 
receive  the  attention  of  Mr.  Talfourd,  I  had  admired  the 
acute,  liberal,  and  dispassionate  tone  of  that  gentleman's 
criticisms;  consequently  I  feel  additional  gratification  from 
his  praise  in  this  month's  New  Monthly.^  At  the  present 
ebb  of  dramatic  criticism,  when  ipse  dixit,  not  analysis,  de- 
cides on  the  faults  or  merits  of  writers,  it  is  most  encourag- 
ing, especially  to  the  young  beginner,  to  know  there  is  at 
least  ^«^  publication  where  he  may  meet  with  fair  and  gentle- 
manly treatment.     There  is,  too,  another  satisfaction  to  the 

*  The  death  of  Mrs.  Mitford. 

t  Mr.  Talfourd  says  in  this  review  :  "  We  are  quite  sure  that  the  gentle- 
man who  wrote  this  piece,  'Black-eyed  Susan,'  though  he  seems  to  have 
been  unfortunate  in  his  '  Witchfinder '  at  Drury  Lane,  will  one  day  rank 
high  among  dramatists." 


The  Drama.  155 

dramatist,  who,  at  the  outset,  encounters  the  prejudice  and 
ignorance  of  what  is  termed  "  daily  and  weekly  criticism." 
He  has  but  to  make  two  or  three  fortunate  hits — no  matter 
whether  borrowed  from  Messrs.  Scribe  or  Mr.  Colburn — to 
change  unthinking  abuse  into  equally  ignorant  encomium. 
With  such  critics,  how  short  the  pause  from  a  hiss  to  a 
huzza ! 

My  "  Witchfinder  "  at  Drury  Lane  was  a  decided  failure. 
The  subject  was  ill-chosen  3  for  few  who  condemned  it  were 
aware  that  they  were  judging  an  attempted  representation  of 
historical  character,  but  condemned  it  as  a  monstrous  fiction. 
Neither  had  the  piece  one  intrinsic  advantage.  Mr.  Farren 
first  injured  it  by  his  extravagant  praise,  and  then  made  the 
mischief  complete  by  his  utter  misconception  of  the  part. 
Then  came  the  learning,  the  intelligence,  and  the  liberality 
of  the  newspapers.  In  the  present  day  a  moderately  gifted 
dramatist  has  a  pretty  time  of  it:  if  he  succeed,  his  piece  has 
the  immortality  of  a  month — if  he  fail,  his  name  is  gibbeted 
in  every  journal  as  a  dullard  and  a  coxcomb.  French  melo- 
dramas have  ruined  us. 

I  have,  madam,  to  apologize  for  inflicting  so  long  a  letter  on 
your  patience,  and  again  repeating  my  wishes  for  your  con- 
valescence, and  my  acknowledgments  of  the  honor  which  you 
have  done  me  in  the  notice  taken  of  my  dramas  (which,  un- 
less they  be  followed  by  much  worthier  things,  I  had  rather 
had  never  been), 

I  remain,  my  dear  madam, 

Ever  truly  and  obliged,  Douglas  Jerrold. 

The  acquaintance  between  Miss  Mitford  and  Miss  Sedg- 
wick commenced  in  the  following  manner : 

Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford. 

New  York,  June  7,  1830. 
My  DEAR  Miss  Mitford, — I  cannot  employ  the  formal 
address  of  a  stranger  towards  one  who  has  inspired  the  vivid 
feeling  of  intimate  acquaintance,  a  deep  and  affectionate  in- 
terest in  her  occupations  and  happiness.  You  cannot  be 
ignorant  that  your  books  are  reprinted  and  widely  circulated 


156  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick. 

on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  but  we  all  have  dim  impressions 
of  the  actual  existence  of  those  that  are  unknown  and  dis- 
tant, and  it  is  probably  difficult  for  you  to  realize  that  your 
name  has  penetrated  beyond  our  maritime  cities,  and  is  fa- 
miliar and  honored,  and  loved  through  many  a  village  circle, 
and  to  the  borders  of  the  lonely  depths  of  unpierced  woods 
— that  we  eagerly  gather  the  intimations  of  your  character 
and  history  that  we  fancy  are  dispersed  through  your  produc- 
tions— that  we  venerate  "  Mrs.  Mosse,"  are  lovers  of  ".  Sweet 
Cousin  Mary,"  and  have  wept,  and  almost  worn  mourning 
for  dear,  bright  little  "Lizzie" — that,  in  short,  such  is  your 
power  over  the  imagination  that  your  pictures  have  wrought 
on  our  affections  like  realities.  I  have  long  been  restrained 
only  by  fear  of  intrusion  from  expressing  to  you  my  admira- 
tion and  gratitude — not  merely  my  selfish  gratitude  for  my 
own  individual  pleasure,  but  for  the  great  good  you  have 
done  to  our  race  by  elevating  the  humbler  members  of  the 
human  family  above  the  mere  subjects  of  our  condescension 
and  charity,  and  showing  that  they  have  abundant  sources  of 
independent,  home,  heartfelt  happiness,  which  asks  nothing 
of  their  superiors,  and  will  receive  nothing,  unless  it  be  such 
generous  sympathy  as  yours.  As  the  humblest  artisan  may 
in  all  humility  offer  a  specimen  of  his  wares,  I  have  requested 
Mrs.  Miller  to  send  you  a  copy  of  "  Clarence,"  a  work  which 
I  have  just  published.  It  is  not  professedly  a  delineation  of 
our  scenery  or  manners,  but,  wherever  they  are  incidentally 
introduced,  I  have  endeavored  to  make  the  portrait  accurate, 
neither  exaggerating  beauties  nor  veiling  defects.  My  niece, 
a  child  nine  years  old,  who  is  sitting  by  me,  not  satisfied  with 
requesting  that  her  love  may  be  sent  to  Miss  Mitford,  has 
boldly  aspired  to  the  honor  of  addressing  a  postscript  to  her, 
and  I,  like  any  other  doting  aunt,  and  not  forgetting  who 
has  allowed  us  a  precedent  for  spoiling  children,  have  con- 
sented to  her  wishes.  Forgive  us  both,  my  dear  Miss  Mit- 
ford, and  believe  me  sincerely 

Your  friend,  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick. 

The  following  is  the  "  postscript :" 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford,  I  cannot  miss  the  opportunity  my 


''Our  Villager  '  157 

aunt  allows  me  of  writing  to  the  author  of  "  Our  Village," 
to  express  my  interest  in  her,  and  in  the  perusal  of  her 
charming  book,  one  of  the  most  valuable  in  my  library, 
which  I  have  read  several  times,  and  at  each  repetition  have 
experienced  increased  delight.  How  is  "  May  Flower," 
the  dog  of  whom  you  relate  so  many  little  anecdotes  ?  or  is 
she  a  mere  chimera,  a  child  of  fancy?  I  do  not  particularly 
admire  shadows,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  some  appre- 
hensions of  the  celebrated  hound's  actual  existence.  And 
has  Joel  Brent's  marriage  turned  out  happily  after  all 
Harriet's  coquetry  ?  And  sweet  Dora  Creswell,  what  has 
become  of  her  ?  And  where  is  Fanny,  the  pretty  gypsy  girl, 
with  her  husband,  her  old  grandmother,  and  her  two  broth- 
ers ?  And  where  is  Thomas  Clere,  the  man  whose  wife  died 
in  his  arms,  in  her  excess  of  joy  at  his  arrival?  And  where 
are  Grace  Neville,  the  old  barber,  and  all  the  other  interest- 
ing personages  mentioned  in  your  book?  I  think  I  hear 
you  say,  "  This  little  girl  asks  too  many  questions,"  but  1 
will  put  an  end  to  them,  and  only  add  that  I  remain,  my 
dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Your  devoted  admirer,        C.  M.  Sedgwick,  Jun. 

PP.S. — I  would  have  corrected  this  young  lady's  language, 
but  I  wished  her  postscript  to  have  at  least  the  merit  of  be- 
ing the  genuine  offspring  of  her  own  mind,  neither  dictated 
nor  retouched  by  an  older  hand. 

Miss  Mitford,  in  replying  to  Miss  Sedgwick,  Sept.  6, 1830, 
sent  also  an  answer  to  her  little  niece's  questions — 

My  DEAR  YOUNG  Friend, — I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you  for  your  kind  inquiries  respecting  the  people  in  my  book. 
It  is  much  to  be  asked  about  by  a  little  lady  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Atlantic,  and  we  are  very  proud  of  it  accordingly. 
"  May  "  was  a  real  greyhound,  and  everything  told  of  her  was 
literally  true;  but,  alas!  she  is  no  more;  she  died  in  the 
hard  frost  of  last  winter.  "  Lizzie"  was  also  true,  and  is  also 
dead.  "Harriet"  and  "Joel"  are  not  married  yet;  you 
shtill  have  the  very  latest  intelligence  of  her;  I  am  expecting 


158  "  Mrs.  Trollope. 

two  or  three  friends  to  dinner,  and  she  is  making  an  apple- 
tart  and  custards — which  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  you 
and  your  dear  aunt  were  coming  to  partake  of.  The  rest  of 
the  people  are  doing  well  in  their  several  ways,  and  I  am  al- 
ways, my  dear  little  girl. 

Most  sincerely  yours,  M.  R.  Mitford. 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Stonington  Park,  Washington  City,  July  28,  1830. 

It  is  but  a  few  days,  my  very  dear  friend,  since  I  learned 
the  death  of  your  beloved  mother..  The  remembrance  of 
all  you  have  been  to  her  in  life  must  be  to  you  the  sweetest 
consolation,  now  you  have  lost  her.  I  trust  that  many 
months  will  not  elapse  after  you  receive  this  before  I  shall 
again  be  within  the  possibility  and  the  hope  of  seeing  you. 
I  have  nothing  now  to  detain  me  but  the  waiting  to  know 
Mr.  Trollope's  final  decision  as  to  the  necessity  of  his  once 
more  crossing  the  Atlantic  to  arrange  himself  the  final  settle- 
ment of  our  untoward  speculation  at  Cincinnati,  and  my  wish 
to  see  a  few  more  of  the  wonders  of  this  wonderful  country. 

I,  too,  am  writing  a  book,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  which, 
let  its  success  among  others  be  what  it  may,  has  helped  to 
amuse  me  at  many  moments  that  would  have  passed  heavily 
without  it.  Captain  Hall's  book  (and  himself  too,  by  the 
way)  has  put  the  Union  in  a  blaze  from  one  end  to  the 
other.  I  never  on  any  occasion  heard  so  general  an  ex- 
pression of  contempt  and  detestation  as  that  which  follows 
his  name.  This  hubbub  made  me  very  desirous  of  seeing 
his  book,  but  I  am  glad  to  say  I  did  not  succeed  till  after 
my  first  volume  was  finished,  and  most  of  the  notes  for  the 
second  collected.  I  thus  escaped  influence  of  any  kind 
from  the  perusal.  A  few  days  ago,  however,  I  was  at  Phil- 
adelphia, and  there  I  got  his  very  strange  work.  I  had  one 
or  two  long  and  interesting  conversations  with  Lee  (the 
publisher),  who  knew  him  well,  and,  from  one  or  two  anec- 
dotes he  gave  me,  it  appears  that  the  "  agreeable  captain  " 
was  under  writing  orders  as  surely  as  he  ever  was,  or  hopes 
to  be  again,  under  sailing  orders.  He  would  have  done 
quite  enough  service  to  the  cause  he  intends  to  support  if 


America.  159 

he  had  painted  things  exactly  as  they  are,  without  seeking 
to  give  his  own  eternal  orange-tawny  color  to  every  object. 
His  blunders  are  such  as  clearly  to  prove  he  never,  or  very 
rarely,  listened  to  the  answers  he  received — for  we  must  not 
suppose  that  he  knew  one  thing  and  printed  another.  Do 
not  suppose,  however,  that  I  am  coming  home  fraught  with 
the  Quixotic  intention  of  running  a  tilt  with  Captain  Hall. 
My  little  book  will  not  be  of  him,  but  of  all  I  have  seen, 
and  of  much  that  he  did  not. 

I  long  ago  determined  that  my  American  letters  should 
not  ruin  my  European  friends;  it  is  therefore  that  I  have 
not  written  before,  but,  now  I  am  within  reach  of  the  minis- 
ter's bag,  I  may  venture  to  recall  myself  to  the  memory  of 
my  distant  friends.  Do  ask  that  very  dear,  very  capricious 
little  pet  of  ours,  Marianne  Skerritt,  why  she  has  given  up 
writing  to  me.  I  have  had,  during  the  early  part  of  my  resi- 
dence here,  one  or  two  of  her  delightful,  glowing,  affectionate 
letters — but  for  more  than  a  year  I  have  not  had  a  line. 
Trollope  senior  is  a  most  kind  and  constant  correspondent, 
but  Trollope  Junior  {yonx  admirer)  is  a  most  idle  personage, 
and  rarely  does  more  than  give  me  a  scrap  in  one  of  his 
father's  sheets  of  foolscap.  Miss  Gabell  has  been  a  faithful 
recorder  of  all  that  was  literary,  and  Lady  Dyer  of  all  that 
was  droll  among  [torn'],  these  have  been  my  constant  and 
unfailing  correspondents.  I  have  had  one  or  two  very 
agreeable  "letters  from  Mrs.  Milton,  and  you  may  tell  her  I 
should  like  to  have  another ;  your  one  delightful  letter  was  a 
legion.  I  will  not  attempt  to  tell  you  how  I  rejoiced  in  the 
splendor  of  your  success.  Since  then,  I  doubt  not,  other 
successes  have  followed,  and  so  it  will  be  as  long  as  you 
wield  a  pen. 

Henry's  miserable  health,  my  own  narrow  escape  from 
death,  the  failure  of  our  hopes  of  placing  him  advantageously, 
and  my  peculiar  disappointment  in  not  benefiting  him,  as  I 
had  hoped  to  do,  by  this  expedition,  all  tended  (together 
with  backwoods'  disagreeabilities)  to  make  me  dislike 
Western  America;  but  there  is  much  to  like  and  admire  on 
this  side  the  Alleghany  Mountains,  many  very  estimable 
and  well-informed  people,  and  an  almost  endless  variety  of 


i6o  Mifs  Strickland. 

objects  and  of  circumstances  in  the  highest  degree  interest- 
ing; yet  would  I  not  pass  the  remnant  of  my  days  here, 
even  if  I  could  have  all  my  family  around  me.  America  is 
a  glorious  country  for  Americans,  but  a  very  so-so  one  for 
Europeans. 

I  shall  long  to  show  you  my  dear  girls.  I  think  the  ex- 
pedition has  done  them  good  in  many  ways,  if  it  has  pro- 
duced no  other  advantage.  They  are  very  dear  creatures,  I 
assure  you.  Adieu,  dear  friend ;  remember  me  kindly  to 
your  father,  and  do  not  forget  that  if  you  could  find  half  an 
hour  to  scribble  a  few  lines  to  me,  Washington  City,  you 
would  give  me  great,  very  great  pleasure. 

Ever  affectionately  yours,  F.  Trollope. 

P.S. — I  am  staying,  and  have  been  for  the  last  three 
months,  with  the  oldest  friend  I  have  in  the  world,  Mrs. 
Stow,  the  eldest  sister  of  the  Julia  Gunnell  you  have  heard 
of.     She  has  a  charming  family. 

Miss  Strickland  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Reydon  Hall,  August  12,  1830. 
It  was  with  regret,  my-dear  Miss  Mitford,  that  I  quitted 
London  without  seeing  you.  It  was  not  so  much  on  ac- 
count of  the  literary  fame  you  have  so  justly  earned  that  I 
was  anxious  for  a  personal  interview,  but  for  the  sake  of 
those  kindly  and  benevolent  feelings  towards  all  ftf  woman 
born  which  are  so  naturally  and  touchingly  scattered  through 
those  pages  we  admire  and  read  with  such  pleasure.  All 
probability  of  a  personal  acquaintance,  I  fear,  is  at  an  end,  as 
it  is  very  likely  I  shall  bid  adieu  to  my  native  land  in  the 
course  of  a  few  months  forever.  I  am  yet  selfish  enough  to 
be  unwilling  to  resign  the  privilege  of  addressing  you,  and  I 
am  perhaps  too  proud  of  the  kindness  you  have  shown  to 
me.  I  have  at  length  seen  and  been  domesticated  with  my 
dear  adopted  father,  Mr.  Pringle,  who  more  than  realized  my 
most  sanguine  expectations  by  his  worth  and  genius.  To 
me  he  has  ever  shown  himself  a  kind  and  disinterested 
friend,  and  I  think  the  faculty  of  memory  must  be  extin- 
guished in  my  breast  when  I  cease  to  recall  with  gratitude 


Ireland.  i6l 

the  obligations  he  has  conferred  upon  me.  I  came  to  town 
in  very  poor  health  for  change  of  air,  and  joined  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  P.  at  Hampstead.  The  few  weeks  I  spent  in  this  de- 
lightful village  restored  me  to  my  former  strength,  and  I 
greatly  enjoyed  our  long  morning  and  evening  rambles  upon 
the  heath.  We  wanted  Miss  Mitford's  pen  to  describe  the 
picturesque  groups  of  Irish  haymakers  bivouacking  upon  the 
heath.  Every  little  declivity  had  its  human  tenants,  and 
presented  a  scene  of  mirth  or  misery,  of  pastoral  simplicity, 
or  extreme  distress  and  wretchedness ;  some  of  these  poor 
people  were  laughing  care  in  the  face,  while  their  haggard 
and  wasted  features  told  of  sorrows  which  belied  their 
affected  gayety.  Poor  Ireland !  How  my  heart  aches  when 
I  think  of  her  degraded  state,  of  the  sufferings  of  her  rash 
but  warm-hearted  children ! 

My  stay  in  London  was  greatly  saddened  by  the  loss  of  a 
very  dear  young  friend.  ...  I  saw  but  few  of  the  literary 
lions.  Most  of  them  had  retreated  into  the  country  to  enjoy 
air  and  liberty.  Mrs.  Lee  (the  Mrs.  Bowdich  of  the  annuals) 
was  the  most  charming  specimen  of  the  female ///^r«// to  whom 
I  had  the  honor  to  be  introduced.  She  is  so  perfectly  the 
lady  that  we  forget  that  she  is  a  blue-stocking.  Will  you  ex- 
cuse the  liberty  I  am  taking,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  in  enclosing 
the  prospectus  of  a  small  volume  of  poems  which  a  friend  of 
mine  has  undertaken  to  publish  for  me  by  private  subscrip- 
tion? I  should  feel  greatly  obliged  to  you  if  you  would  cir- 
culate them  among  any  of  your  wealthy  friends  who  are  un- 
fashionable enough  to  be  lovers  of  poetry.  The  high  opinion 
which  my  friend  has  of  their  merit  makes  him  anxious  to 
bring  them  before  the  public.  But  the  method  he  has  taken 
to  give  them  publicity  is  most  repugnant  to  my  feelings. 
With  every  kind  wish  for  your  health  and  happiness,  believe 
me,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Yours  most  sincerely,  Susanna  Strickland. 


l62  Duke  of  Devonshire. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Letters  from  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  Mrs.  Trollope,  and 
Miss  Sedgwick. 

Miss  Mitford  was  unable  to  obtain  a  license  for  the  per- 
formance of  "  Charles  I.,"  and  the  refusal,  repeated  by  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire,  appeared  the  more  unfair  as  John  Kem- 
ble  had  already  taken  the  principal  part  in  a  play  on  the 
same  subject  and  with  the  same  name.  All  political  allu- 
sions were  carefully  avoided  by  Miss  Mitford,  and  both 
Charles  and  Cromwell  were  represented  as  greater  than 
they  were.  But  owing  to  this  adverse  decision  the  play  was 
only  performed  on  the  other  side  of  the  Thames. 

Duke  of  Devonshire  to  Miss  Mitford. 

London,  March  25,  1831. 

Madam, — The  very  sincere  admiration  and  respect  I  feel 
for  your  talents,  and  the  pleasure  I  have  derived  from  your 
works,  make  me  feel  much  regret  in  not  answering  your 
letter  as  you  would  wish.  But  I  have  made  a  rule  not  to 
reverse  the  decisions  of  my  predecessor,  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
trose, with  regard  to  any  play  which  he  prohibited. 

Mr.  Coleman  is  now,  I  trust,  so  much  disposed  to  enter 
into  my  views  on  the  subject  of  the  drama  that  I  should  be 
sorry  to  compel  him  to  the  alternative  of  retracting  or  of 
losing  his  situation,  which  my  making  any  departure  from 
the  rule  I  have  mentioned  would  have  the  effect  of  doing. 

I  hope  that  you  will  not  be  subjected  to  any  inconven- 
ience by  my  decision,  or  think  me  unreasonable  in  making 
the  following  request,  which  is  that  you  will  allow  me  to  re- 
tain the  copy  of  your  play,  to  add  it  to  my  dramatic  library. 
That  collection  consists  of  nearly  six  thousand  plays,  some 
of  which  are  of  the  greatest  rarity,  and  if  ever  you  should 
wish  to  refer  to  any  of  the  early  dramatic  authors,  it  would 


Mrs.  Trollopc's  First  Book.  163 

give  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  show  you  the  works  of  any 
of  them.     I  have  the  honor  to  be,  madam, 

Your  sincere  humble  servant,  Devonshire. 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

New  York,  May  29,  183 1. 
I  write  to  you,  my  dear  friend,  almost  on  the  eve  of  de- 
parture, and  would  rather  have  done  so  on  the  eve  of  my 
arrival  in  my  own  dear  land,  were  it  not  that  I  wish  to  pro- 
pitiate your  assistance  in  the  business  that  must  occupy  me 
immediately  on  my  arrival.  I  ask  for  it  frankly,  and  frankly 
must  you  refuse  should  granting  it  include  any  inconvenience 
which  my  ignorance  prevents  my  foreseeing — of  this  your- 
self only  can  be  the  judge.  You  know,  I  believe,  that  I  have 
looked  and  listened  since  I  have  been  here  with  a  view  to 
publication,  and  you  know  also,  dear  friend — for  how  can 
you  help  it? — that  I  am  as  utterly  unknown  in  the  world  of 
letters  as  your  dog  May  was  before  you  immortalized  him. 
What  I  would  ask  is  such  a  letter  of  introduction  to  your 
publisher  as  would  enable  me  to  present  myself  before  him 
without  feeling  as  if  I  had  dropped  upon  him  from  the  moon. 

My  book  is  gossiping,  and  without  pretension  most  faith- 
fully true  to  the  evidence  of  my  senses,  and  written  without 
a  shadow  of  (previous)  feeling  for  or  against  the  things  de- 
scribed. I  have  about  thirty  outline  sketches  by  Hervieu,* 
not  of  scenery,  but  of  manners,  which  I  think  will  help  the 
book  greatly.  I  am  well  aware  that  it  is  difficult  to  bring  a 
first  effort  to  the  light,  but  I  think  your  powerful  name  will 
help  me  much. 

I  am  delighted  with  New  York — it  is  the  only  place  where 
I  have  found  the  society  really  good  for  anything;  the  lo- 
cality is  unequalled  in  beauty  and  convenience  as  a  mercan- 
tile city.  It  is  here,  and  here  only,  that  I  have  had  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  "  Rienzi ;"  it  is  a  noble  tragedy,  and 
not  even  the  bad  acting  of  the  Chatham  Theatre  could  spoil 
it.  I  never  witnessed  such  a  triumph  of  powerful  poetry 
over  weak  acting  as  in  the  magnificent  scene  where  Rienzi 

*  An  account  of  him  has  been  given  on  page  122. 


164  Mifs  Fanny  Kemble. 

refuses  pardon  to  an  Orsini ;  the  narrative  of  the  mother  and 
her  babes  drew  tears  from  American  eyes,  albeit  unused 
(God  knows)  to  any  mood  of  deep  feeling, 

A  letter  from  M,  A.  Skerritt  followed  me  yesterday  into 
the  state  of  New  Jersey,  where  we  have  been  passing  a  few 
days  with  a  friend.  She  speaks  of  "  Inez  "  as  about  to  be 
produced.  I  have  been  long  expecting  to  hear  that  it  was 
out.  Do  you  remember  reading  it  to  me  (excepting  the 
fourth  act,  which  was  not  then  born)  just  before  I  left  Eng- 
land? Marianne  says  something  very  unintelligible  about 
Miss  Fanny  Kemble  not  liking  her  part.  I  fear  this  young 
and  highly  supported  actress  must  have  too  entire  posses- 
sion of  the  first  parts  to  leave  any  opening  for  an  admirable 
woman,  who  has  one  or  two  theatres  in  the  west,  but  who 
sometimes  talks  as  if  %he  would  leave  them  all  for  the  glory 
of  appearing  in  "  Claudia  "  on  the  London  boards.  She  is 
a  charming  actress,  but  she  writes  me  word  that  she  is  quite 
sure  she  never  played  anything  so  well  as  the  last  scenes  of 
"Rienzi." 

We  are  just  about  to  start  for  Niagara,  and  shall  leave 
New  York  for  London  immediately  oh  our  return  thence. 

With  best  remembrances  to  your  father,  believe  me. 

Ever  affectionately  yours,  F.  Trollope. 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Harrow,  Sept.  16,  1831. 

Have  you  not  thought  me  the  most  ungrateful  of  women, 
my  dear  kind  friend,  for  being  thus  long  before  I  thanked 
you  for  your  compliance  with  my  request,  and  still  more  for 
the  very  kind  manner  of  it?  I  have,  however,  not  been  un- 
grateful, but,  as  I  can  get  no  frank  at  Harrow,  I  would  not 
write  till  my  letter  might  contain  the  result  of  your  kind 
service,  as  well  as  my  thanks  for  it. 

You  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  Mr.  Whittaker  re- 
ceived graciously  a  communication  from  you.  He  was  very 
civil,  and  desired  me  to  leave  the  MS.,  saying  he  would  get 
a  literary  friend  to  read  it,  and  that  in  a  fortnight  he  should 
be  ready  to  give  me  an  answer.  Tom  called  on  him  after 
this  time  had  expired,  and  was  told  that  the  MS.  was  with 


Mrs.  Trollopes  Book.  1 65 

Captain  Basil  Hall,  who  had  not  yet  returned  it.  I  was 
rather  alarmed  at  this,  as  he  was  almost  too  good  a  judge 
of  the  subject.  A  few  days  afterwards,  however,  I  received 
a  very  flattering  letter  from  him,  accompanied  by  several 
pages  of  remarks,  all  very  much  calculated  to  give  me  con- 
fidence in  my  new  enterprise.  This  was  very  kind,  as  I  am 
quite  a  stranger  to  him.  He  says  that  "  he  has  strongly  ad- 
vised Mr.  Whittaker  to  lose  no  time  in  publishing  the  work, 
which  he  is  sure  will  interest  the  public  greatly."  Whether 
he  said  more  than  this  to  Whittaker,  I  know  not ;  to  me  he 
said  considerably  more.  However,  Whittaker  only  told  me 
that  "  Captain  Hall  spoke  rather  favorably  of  the  work,  and 
that  he  was  willing  to  print  it,  dividing  the  profits  with  me." 

I  suppose,  however,  that  this  is  as  favorable  an  offer  as  a 
person  so  utterly  unknown  can  expect.  But,  as  we  have 
been  losing  money  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  a  little 
money  in  esse  would  have  been  more  agreeable  than  the 
hopes  he  gives  in  posse. 

Miss  Milman  tells  me  that  this  Miss  Fanny  has  actually 
written  and  published  a  very  fine  tragedy.  To  me  this  ap- 
pears like  a  joke — a  girl  of  nineteen  write  a  fine  tragedy! 
Do  you  believe  this  possible  ?     I  do  not. 

I  was  told  at  New  York  that  this  young  lady  was  expected 
there  with  her  father.  If  this  be  true,  it  does  not  look  as  if 
she  were  very  successful  here,  as  she  will  be  the  first  actress 
of  any  distinction  who  has  condescended  to  cross  the  At- 
lantic. 

How  delightfully  English  everything  looks !  I  cannot 
describe  to  you  the  pleasure  of  returning  to  Europe  after  an 
absence  of  nearly  four  years. 

I  know  your  good  father  (to  whom  present  my  kind  re- 
membrances) is  a  bit  of  a  radical — so  I  was  too,  once,  but 
the  United  States  offer  a  radical  cure  for  this.     Adieu. 
Ever  affectionately  and  gratefully  yours, 

F.  Trollope. 

Mrs,  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 
Will  you,  my  dear  and  kind  friend,  accept  my  little  vol- 
dnies,  though  their  politics  may  not  quite  agree  with  yours  ? 


1 66  Mifs  Emitta  Roberts. 

They  owe  their  birth  to  you,  so  be  tender  and  pitiful  to  them. 
Had  )'ou  been  four  years  among  the  people  I  have  described, 
I  do  sincerely  believe  you  would  not  have  described  them 
as  more  amiable.  I  write  in  great  haste.  Would  you  had 
time  to  tell  me  something  of  yourself  and  your  concerns.  I 
hear  of  an  opera.     What  does  it  mean  ? 

Ever  gratefully  and  affectionately  yours, 

F.  Trollope. 

Miss  Roberts  to  Miss  Mitford. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — May  I  be  permitted  to  address 
thus  familiarly  a  lady  with  whom,  though  not  personally  ac- 
quainted, I  have  long  been  upon  terms  of  intimacy,  and  for 
whom  I  have  felt  the  most  lively  sentiments  of  regard  and 
esteem.  Ever  since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  being  z.  fellow- 
contributor  of  yours  in  the  Ladies'  Magazitie*  I  have  most 
anxiously  wished  for  an  introduction  to  you,  but  was  deterred 
from  seeking  an  opportunity  of  making  myself  known  by  the 
consciousness  of  my  own  obscurity,  and  the  impossibility  of 
founding  any  claim  upon  those  literary  compositions  which 
were  always  at  so  immeasurable  a  distance  from  yours. 
When,  however,  I  became  an  inhabitant  of  the  house  in 
Hans  Place,  which  I  knew  to  be  the  scene  of  your  juvenile 
days,  from  the  description  given  in  the  "  Boarding-school 
Recollections,"  and  began  to  entertain  a  hope  that  my  in- 
timacy with  Miss  Landon  and  the  acquaintance  of  Miss 
Skerritt  would  sanction  my  long-cherished  wish,  I  ventured 
to  add  my  invitation  to  that  of  L.  E.  L,,  that  you  would  give 
us  the  great  pleasure  of  your  company  at  our  ball,  and  the 
very  kind  and  flattering  message  addressed  to  me  in  your 
reply  has  emboldened  me  to  trouble  Miss  Skerritt  with  a 
note,  which  would  have  been  written  long  ago,  had  I  not 
feared  you  might  think  me  intrusive. 

*  "  Our  Village"  first  appeared  in  this  little-known  periodical,  which 
also  contained  many  exquisite  sketches  of  country  life  and  scenery  by 
M.  R.  M.  The  editor  of  the  magazine  finally  absconded  £/StO  in  Miss 
Mitford's  debt.  "  The  only  comfort  is  that  the  magazine  cannot  go  on 
without  me."     Her  contributions  had  increased  the  sale  from  250  to 

2CX)0. 


Mifs  Emma  Roberts.  167 

It  is  impossible  for  me  to  say  how  very  much  delighted  I 
should  be  if  I  could  hope  for  the  opportunity  of  cultivating 
your  acquaintance.  If  you  would  condescend  to  employ 
your  pen  upon  the  reminiscences  of  others,  it  would  be  in  my 
power  to  offer  you  subjects  so  admirably  adapted  to  your 
exquisite  talents  that  I,  despairing  of  doing  anything  like 
justice  to  them,  have  suffered  them  to  remain  dormant  in  my 
mind,  content  with  fancying  the  pleasure  I  should  derive 
from  the  delineation  by  so  masterly  a  hand  as  yours.  My 
friends  are  envying  the  privilege  I  enjoy  in  writing  to  you, 
and  the  occupation  is  so  fascinating  that,  had  I  not  taken  the 
precaution  of  choosing  a  half-sheet  of  paper,  I  fear  I  should 
inflict  more  of  my  tediousness  upon  you  than  you  could  by 
any  possibility  pardon.  In  the  hope  that  you  will  not  think 
me  too  encroaching  by  this  tax  upon  your  patience,  I  re- 
main, with  the  sincerest  regard. 

Yours,  Emma  Roberts. 

Miss  Emma  Roberts,  during  her  travels  in  India,  wrote 
"  Scenes  and  Characteristics  of  Hindostan,"  and  "  Oriental 
Scenes  and  Sketches."  The  latter,  a  poetical  work,  she  dedi- 
cated to  her  friend.  Miss  Landon,  of  whom  she  published  a 
biography,  saying  that  the  year  spent  under  the  same  roof 
with  her  was  one  of  the  happiest  in  her  life.  The  above 
letter  seems  to  have  been  written  during  this  period,  and 
when  she  and  Miss  Mitford  were  contributing  to  the  Amu- 
let. Mr.  S.  C.  Hall,  who  edited  this  periodical,  and  is,  per- 
haps, the  best  authority  living  on  such  subjects,  tells  me  that 
about  this  time  Miss  E.  Roberts  and  L.  E.  L.  were  staying 
at  No.  22  Hans  Place,  at  a  finishing  establishment  kept  by 
a  Mrs.  Lance.  In  the  St.  Quintins'  time  L.  E.  L.  had  been 
at  school  in  this  house,  and  it  stood  but  three  doors  below 
that  in  which  L.  E.  L.  was  born.  Miss  Roberts  returned  to 
India,  where,  owing  to  severe  literary  labor  for  periodicals, 
and  the  heat  of  the  climate,  she  died  in  1840,  in  the  forty- 
seventh  year  of  her  age. 


1 68  Mrs.  TroUope's  Book. 


Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Harrow,  April  23, 1833. 

My  dear  Friend, — Whittaker  told  me  the  other  day  that 
he  had  agreed  for  your  fifth  volume — trust  me,  I  long  for  it. 
Whittaker  must  have  made  a  great  thing  of  you,  dear  friend. 
He  told  me  some  time  ago  that  your  name  would  sell  any- 
thing. I  think  he  is  a  little  inclined  to  make  the  most  of  one. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  friendly  exertions  of  Captain  Hall,  I 
should  hardly  get  on  so  well  as  I  have  done.  £2^0  is  what 
he  has  paid  me  for  the  first  edition,  and  I  am  to  have  ;^2oo 
more  next  week,  when  the  second  will  be  out.  The  first  was 
one  thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty,  the  second  one  thou- 
sand copies.  This  must  pay  him  well,  but  I  suppose  it  is 
all  right. 

How  very  wise  you  have  been  to  keep  yourself  above  the 
fulsome  nonsense  which  I  find  it  is  the  fashion  to  shower 
upon  people  "  what  makes  books."  I  cannot  express  to  you 
how  heartily  I  dislike  it.  I  hope  and  trust  that  you  never 
mistook  my  earnest  wish  to  be  acquainted  with  you  for  a 
wish  to  lionize.  I  liked  and  I  loved  you,  and  it  is  very  possi- 
ble I  may  have  told  you  so,  but  indeed  and  indeed  it  was  not 
because  you  were  the  Miss  Mitford.  How  much  I  admire 
you  for  keeping  out  of  London  ! 

I  never  felt  less  in  good-humor  with  people  in  my  life  than 
I  have  done  since  I  have  been  so  be-puffed  and  be-praised. 
I  am,  however,  thankful  for  the  motiey  I  have  gained  by  it; 
it  has  been  very  useful  to  us.  My  dear  Henry  (whom  you 
do  not  know,  but  whom  I  hope  you  some  day  will)  is  to  be 
immediately  entered  at  the  Temple  by  means  of  it — so  vii/e 
la  plume/ 

What  does  one  do  to  get  business  with  the  mags  and  an- 
nuals ?  Does  one  say,  as  at  playing  ecartd,  "  I  propose,"  or 
must  one  wait  to  be  asked?  Remember,  dear,  that  I  have 
five  children. 

I  was  not  lucky  enough  to  see  Miss  Sedgwick,  but  I  will 
transcribe  for  you  a  passage  from  the  journal  of  a  lady, 
which  has  just  been  lent  me.  I  may  not  name  her  name  as 
I  quote  her.     *'  Miss  Sedgwick's   novel  of  '  Hope  Leslie  ' 


Mifs  Sedgwick.  169 

had  prepared  us  to  think  well  of  its  author,  nor  were  we  dis- 
appointed in  spite  of  the  extraordinary  portion  of  drawl  she 
has  to  contend  with.  Her  countenance  is  pleasing,  and  her 
conversation  so  infinitely  superior  to  that  of  the  ladies  we 
generally  have  met  in  America  that  it  was  quite  refreshing. 
The  Sedgwick  family  is  that  of  the  greatest  importance  in 
Stockbridge,  and  both  the  males  and  females  are  more  cul- 
tivated than  most  families." 

Ever  affectionately  yours,  F.  Trollope. 

Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford.      • 

New  York,  May  14,  1832. 
Your  letters,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  are  destined  to  be  to 
me  what  an  exquisite  dessert  is  to  a  man  whose  keen  and 
wholesome  appetite  would  fain  have  been  regaled  with  the 
first  course — the  dessert  is  delicious,  but  it  only  appeases 
the  cravings  of  hunger  without  satisfying  them,  "  Mr. 
Jones  "  is  my  Petruchio.  His  very  name  has  a  knell  in  it, 
and  if  your  kind  heart  should  prompt  you  again  to  write  to 
me,  I  entreat  you  to  eschew  my  countryman  Mr.  Jones.  I 
am  not  surprised  (revolted  I  think  I  could  not  be  at  anything 
from  you)  at  your  feudal  tastes.  Old  institutions  and  usages, 
under  which  you  have  been  educated,  and  which  have  formed 
your  mind,  naturally  inspire  respect  and  affection.  They 
are  endeared  by  habit,  embellished  by  romance  and  poetry, 
and  consecrated  by  history;  they  must  be  inwrought  with 
your  thoughts  and  affections,  and  cannot  be  touched  without 
jarring  the  whole  fabric.  There  is,  no  doubt,  a  dignified 
tranquillity  in  living  as  you  of  the  aristocracy  do,  within  bar- 
riers that  cannot  be  passed  "without  permission."  We,  on 
the  contrary,  are  on  the  world's  wide  common,  where  every 
one  is  entitled  (to  borrow  the  words  Dr.  Franklin  put  into 
the  mouth  of  St.  Peter  in  addressing  a  heterodox  saint)  to 
take  the  best  place  he  can  find.  This  occasions  much  loss 
of  the  picturesque,  and  some  jostlings  and  hard  rubs,  no 
doubt;  but  the  lines  of  demarcation  here,  though  impercep- 
tible to  a  stranger's  eye,  are  understood  and  felt  among  us. 
I  doubt  if  the  born  and  bred  gentry  of  England  could  relish 
the  state  of  things  here;  and  yet  believe  me,  my  dear  Miss 

8 


I/O  England  and  America. 

Mitford,  there  is  much  to  delight  a  spirit  so  benevolently  in- 
terested as  yours  in  the  happiness  of  humanity.  The  million 
have  now  their  just  weight  in  the  scale,  and  for  their  sakes 
you  would  renounce  old  prejudices. — Forgive  me !  This 
discourteous  Americanism  dropped  from  my  pen  unwittingl)'. 
We  are  such  a  new  modelling  and  remodelling  people  that 
we  are  apt  to  condemn  all  "  forms  and  pressures  past "  as 
prejudices;  with  us  everything  is  in  a  state  of  fusion  to  be 
cast  in  the  best  (and  sometimes  for  best  read  newest)  mould. 
I  was  reading  your  letter  to  one  of  my  nieces — a  girl  of 
eleven.  ^  said,  I  suspect  our  dear  Miss  Mitford  is  an  anti- 
reformist.  "  Oh !"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  wish  that  everybody 
we  love  in  England  would  not  be  against  the  reform !" 
"Who  do  you  mean  by  everybody,  Jane?"  "Why,  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott  and  Miss  Mitford." 

The  mention  of  the  little  girl  reminds  me  that  I  have  yet 
a  great  deal  more  to  say  than  you  would  have  patience  to 
read,  and  the  limits  of  my  paper  whisper  brevity.  My  con- 
dition is  strikingly  unlike  yours  in  one  respect.  I  have 
brothers  who,  I  think  (and  as  we  think  of  our  friends  so 
they  are  to  us),  have  no  superiors ;  one  beloved  sister,  and 
four  sisters  as  true  and  devoted  as  if  they  were  born  flesh 
of  my  flesh,  though  "  in  law  "  has  to  be  written  after  the  title 
by  which  I  am  allied  to  them.  Besides,  I  have  a  little  com- 
munity of  nephews  and  nieces,  including  my  adopted  child 
— the  little  girl  who  is  honored  by  your  regard.  Am  I 
boasting  of  this  wealth  ?  God  forbid  !  A  friend  of  mine 
once  said  to  me,  "You  touch  the  world  at  too  many  points." 
Events  that  have  made  heaven  nearer  and  dearer  to  me 
have  taught  me  that  the  keenest  suffering  is  the  price  to  be 
paid  for  the  greatest  blessings.  My  brother  Robert,  with 
whom  I  live  in  New  York,  is  your  devoted  admirer.  I  wish 
I  could  describe  to  you  the  unaffected  enthusiasm  with 
which  he  kissed  your  signature.  I  have  this  moment  open 
before  me  a  letter  just  received  from  one  of  my  sisters,  Mrs. 
Theodore  Sedgwick.  I  am  tempted  to  make  an  extract 
from  it.  "I  was  delighted  with  Miss  M.'s  letter;  its  frank- 
ness, cordiality,  and  spirit  show  how  much  of  her  character 
is  infused  into  her  village  sketches,  and  make  them  doubly 


'■'Our  Village^  171 

valuable.  I  beg  you  will  let  her  know  the  admiration  your 
sister  entertains  for  her.  I  am  entitled  to  this  introduction, 
as,  without  my  urging  you,  you  would  never  have  written 
her." 

My  heart  urged  too,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  but  I  shrank 
from  obtruding. 

I  write  by  Mr.  Ashburner,  who  is  going  out  for  his  daugh- 
ter, to  return  the  ist  of  August.  He  will  bring  a  letter  to 
me  addressed  to  the  care  of  Miss  Sharp,  14  New  Ormond 
St.,  London.  Shall  he  not  bear  the  precious  freight?  Tell 
me  anything  of  yourself — anything  of  your  noble  father 
(long  may  he  live !),  whom  I  have  loved  ever  since  you  took 
that  ride  with  him  in  a  one-horse  chaise  of  a  misty  morning. 
Do  you  remember? 

My  Kate  begs  her  grateful  and  affectionate  remembrances 
may  be  sent  to  you.  She  would  not  be  satisfied  without 
writing,  but  she  is  just  now  sick  in  bed — a  rare  occurrence 
for  her.  She  has  been  with  me  in  the  city  all  winter,  and 
her  progress  has  satisfied  my  most  ardent  desires  for  her. 
May  I  send  my  affectionate  regards  to  your  father  ? 
Believe  me  yours,  truly  and  affectionately, 

C.  M.  Sedgwick. 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Julian  Hill,  Nov.  13,  1832. 
I  would  not  write,  my  dear  friend,  to  thank  you  for  your 
letter  till  I  could  thank  you  for  your  book  too.  Now,  I  am 
happy. to  say,  I  can  do  both.  But  I  was  put  in  a  fright  for 
fear  I  should  miss  the  letter,  for  when  my  son  called  at  our 
man's  to  ask  for  it,  Mr.  Howe  told  him  that  all  the  gift 
copies  were  already  sent.  I  was  in  a  bit  of  a  rage,  because 
AVhittaker  knew  that  you  intended  one  for  me  long  ago. 
However,  I  took  wisdom  in  my  wrath,  and  determined  to 
be  refused  by  the  master  as  well  as  by  the  man  before  I 
cried  out.  The  instant  I  mentioned  the  circumstance  to 
Whittaker,  he  said,  "  Most  certainly  there  is  a  copy  ready 
for  you ;"  so  all  is  well,  and  I  thank  you  much,  and  will 
thank  you  more  still  when  you  come  to  see  me  (as  you  have 
so  often  promised  to  do),  and  will  write  my  name  in  it.     It 


1/2  "  Our  Village." 

has  made  me  extravagant,  for  I  have  ordered  the  four  other 
volumes.  The  work  is  perfectly  unique.^  I  know  nothing 
like  it  in  any  language,  and  it  is  among  the  few  to  which 
one  can  turn  again  and  again  with  even  new  pleasure.  The 
"Farewell"  is  one  of  the  sweetest  bits  of  writing  that  I 
know.  I  should  have  paid  you  (not  in  kind,  God  knows ! 
but)  in  produce,  by  sending  my  three  big  volumes. — By  the 
way,  I  think  you  rather  extravagant  for  giving  such  extra 
good  measure;  why,  there  is  matter  enough  in  your  volume 
to  make  two  of  the  novel  genus.  But  the  reason  I  have 
not  sent  them  is  that  Whittaker,  to  my  great  satisfaction, 
told  me  that  he  expected  there  must  be  another  edition  di- 
rectly, and  that  he  should  be  glad  if  I  would  delay  sending 
my  six  copies  till  then.  So  I  shall  wait  upon  you  then,  if 
you  will  condescend  to  be  at  home  to  it. 

When  shall  you  come  to  town  ?  Mrs.  Bentley  writes  me 
word  that  Covent  Garden  is  beautiful.  She  tells  me  of 
some  American  actor  who  has  come  over  to  perform  here, 
whose  name,  however,  I  cannot  read  in  her  MS.,  that  says, 
"  Every  word  in  Mrs.  Trollope's  book  is  true  without  the 
slightest  exaggeiration." 

The  Kembles,  she  tells  me,  are  doing  wonders — poor 
Charles  will  be  rich  at  last.  I  hear  Macready  is  quite  out 
of  fashion — he  had  better  have  played  "Rienzi,"  dear.  It 
is  long  since  he  has  made  a  hit — his  benefit  brought  nothing. 

You  can  form  no  idea  of  the  pleasure  your  Bramshill 
scene  gave  me.  That  part  was  the  favorite,  and  in  summer 
often  the  daily  haunt  of  my  youthful  days.  There  was  one 
particular  spot  under  a  high  oak,  where  I  have  sat  alone  for 
hours.  It  was  within  hearing  of  the  great  clock,  and  but 
for  that  I  should  often  have  been  benighted  there.  I  wish 
I  knew  Sir  John  Cope.  I  would  give  a  joint  of  my  little 
finger  to  visit  Bramshill  again.     Adieu. 

Ever  affectionately  yours,  F.  Trollope. 

Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford. 

New  York,  Dec.  12,  1832. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Do  not  discard  me  as  an  over- 
punctual  correspondent.     I  am  writing  thus  promptly  after 


Mrs.  Trollope  s  Book.  173 

the  receipt  of  your  kind  letter,  in  the  hope  of  procuring  for 
my  nephew,  Mr.  George  Pomeroy,  the  happiness  of  an  in- 
troduction to  you.  He  is  now  in  England  on  the  business 
of  a  large  commercial  house  of  this  city,  of  which  he  is  a 
partner.  He  is  in  some  sort  entitled  to  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing you,  being  among  your  most  enthusiastic  admirers,  and 
may  I  not  hope  that  he  has  some  claim,  or,  more  modestly 
speaking,  chance,  as  my  friend  as  well  as  kinsman,  of  your 
acquaintance  ?  Lord  Bacon  commends  the  Italians  for  mak- 
ing little  difference  between  their  children  and  nephews.  I 
certainly  have  found  the  sweetest  fountains  of  my  affections 
and  happiness  opened  by  the  children  of  my  brothers  and 
sisters. 

That  was  a  fortunate  clause  in  Mrs.  Trollope's  book  in 
which  she  speaks  of  her  "friend.  Miss  Mitford" — to  borrow 
a  cant  phrase  of  our  business  city,  it  was  a  "  heavy  name," 
a  "  Baring  "  or  a  "  Rothschild  "  on  doubtful  paper.  Mrs. 
Trollope  must  have  been  very  unfortunate  in  her  associa- 
tions in  this  country.  There  is  undoubtedly  a  very  crude 
state  of  society  in  the  new  towns  of  our  Western  States;  and 
in  every  part  of  our  country,  in  our  best  circles,  there  are 
persons  to  be  met  who  have  not  been  able  to  throw  off  the 
coarse  habits  as  they  rose  above  the  fortunes  of  their  early 
years.  But  Mrs.  Trollope,  though  she  has  told  some  dis- 
agreeable truths,  has  for  the  most  part  caricatured  till  the 
resemblance  is  lost.  Wherever  she"  has  attempted  a  char- 
acteristic conversation  she  has  given  a  slang  unknown  even 
among  our  domestics,  and  mingled  with  a  dialect  that  is 
anything  but  American.  It  is  difficult,  almost  impossible, 
for  a  foreigner  to  comprehend  this  country,  and  I  am  not 
surprised  that  those  accustomed  to  the  thorny  and  almost 
impassable  barriers  of  England  should  be  shocked  at  find- 
ing themselves  in  an  open  field,  where  they  seem  to  be 
turned  in  with  all  sorts  of  cattle.  But  the  case  is  not  quite 
so  bad.  Distinctions  are  felt,  though  not  seen,  and  there  is 
as  little  real  danger  to  any  personal  rights  or  individual  dig- 
nity as  there  was  (do  not  think  me  presuming  in  the  com- 
parison) to  Adam  and  Eve  moving  in  Paradise  amidst  its 
races  subjected  by  the  inviolable  laws  of  Providence. 


1/4  Flowers. 

In  your  own  kind  language,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  I  am 
certain  _)W/  would  like  America,  but  I  am  aware  that  in  order 
to  5'our  liking  it  your  very  superior  heart  as  well  as  mind 
must  operate.  No  benevolent  being  can  help  liking  a  coun- 
try where  happiness  is  so  attainable  and  so  diffused,  and 
where  there  is  so  rapid  a  progress  in  all  the  arts,  comforts, 
and  enjoyments  of  life.  And  as  to  my  liking  England,  I  love 
and  honor  it  now,  as  a  dutiful  child  loves  and  honors  a  par- 
ent. Sir  Walter  Scott's  death  has  been  mourned  through 
our  land,  as  we  mourn  for  our  personal  benefactors.  We 
had  a  little  family _;?/^  in  honor  of  him  at  my  eldest  brother's 
in  Berkshire  a  few  evenings  since.  We  were  all  required  to 
produce  some  tribute  to  his  memory. 

The  seeds  were  a  most  delightful  little  gift.  We  had  the 
flower  in  one  of  the  gardens  of  our  valley  for  the  first  time 
last  summer— but  this  is  from  your  garden,  and  there  is 
nothing  about  which  that  wonderful  electric  chain  is  so 
wound  as  a  plant  from  the  garden  of  a  friend. 

Do  I  love  flowers !  Better  than  anything  but  friends, 
who  can  speak  or  write  to  me.  If  ever  I  have  an  opportu- 
nity I  will  send  you  some  of  our  indigenous  plants.  Have 
you  the  orchis?  any  of  our  azaleas,  or  kalmias?  Is  our 
fringed  gentian, 

"Whose  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Looks  thro'  its  fringes  to  the  sky," 

a  stranger  to  you  ? 

Fanny  Kemble  is  here,  witching  the  young,  and  making 
even  old  eyes  weep.  She  is  much  courted  and  admired  in 
society — at  least,  among  the  ultra-fashionable.  The  sages 
say  she  is  an  actress,  and  therefore  disqualified  for  society. 

I  am  truly  obliged  to  you  for  saving  me  from  the  mortifi- 
cation of  inflicting  postage  on  you.  I  made  an  unsuccess- 
ful effort  to  avoid  it  when  I  last  wrote  to  you.  When  you 
write  again,  do  tell  me  more  of  yourself.  When  do  you  ap- 
pear again  in  public?  So  great  a  favorite  ought  not  to  be 
so  long  behind  the  scenes  —  these  busy  scenes  that  some- 
body will  tread.  What  is  the  state  of  your  father's  health? 
God  bless  him  and  you,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford  ! 

Yours  truly  and  affectionately,        C.  M.  Sedgwick. 


Reviews.  175 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Julian  Hill,  Dec.  27,  1832. 

My  dear  Friend, — Not  knowing  where  to  get  a  frank,  I 
have  delayed  answering  your  letter  till  I  could  get  a  copy 
of  the  book  I  wished  to  send  you  from  Whittaker.  Not  that 
I  have  suffered  the  interval  to  pass  in  idleness.  I  have 
(without  using  names)  been  obtaining  all  the  information 
within  reach  on  the  subject  of  your  last  letter.  For  myself, 
I  can  truly  say  that  there  is  no  literary  enterprise  I  should 
set  about  with  so  true  a  relish  as  that  of  reviewing  "Our 
Village,"  and  I  think  I  could  write  an  interesting  article  on 
it.  But  I  am  assured  from  the  best  authority  that  no  woman 
has  ever  written  for  the  Quarterly. 

Respecting  Captain  H ,  I  was  assured  by  the  most 

intimate  friend  he  has,  to  whom  I  applied  (not  now,  but  re- 
specting the  domestic  manners  of  the  American)  that  the 
surest  way  to  prevent  his  writing  any  review  at  all  would  be 
to  mention  the  subject  to  him,  and  many  anecdotes  were 
told  me  to  prove  the  truth  of  the  statement.  This  being 
the  case,  I  fear  that  not  all  my  good-will  can  avail.  Could 
you,  by  your  literary  connection,  obtain  insertion  for  such 
an  article  in  any  review  or  magazine?  I  would  joyfully 
write  it  gratis,  and  to  the  very  top  of  my  power.  It  has 
occurred  to  me  that  Mr.  Harness  is  an  intimate  friend  of 
yours;  he,  I  know,  writes  for  the  Quarterly,  for  he  reviewed 
Fanny  Kemble's  play.  Could  not  he  be  made  useful  ?  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  heartily  I  wish  I  could  be  so,  and  how 
mortifying  is  the  consciousness  of  my  want  of  power. 

How  I  wish  you  would  set  about  a  novel !  It  is  impossi- 
ble that  it  should  not  be  a  brilliant  success.  Your  man- 
ner of  writing,  your  knowledge  of  character,  your  pathos,  and 
your  rich  vein  of  quiet  humor,  to  say  nothing  of  your  pre- 
vious reputation,  must  infallibly  insure  it.  I  do  not  believe 
that  there  is  one  left  who  could  compete  with  you  in  this  walk. 

Is  your  member  in }  I  hope  so.  The  elections  have 
passed  off  very  quietly,  which  has  certainly  been  a  great 
comfort;  but  some  of  them  have  been  very  queer — Gully, 
for  instance — a  prize-fighter  making  laws !     It  is  new. 


176  -  Visit  to  London. 

I  will  not  give  up  the  hope  of  seeing  you  here  this  spring. 
You  must  have  business  in  London,  I  am  quite  sure.  Adieu, 
dear  friend.  Tell  me  that  you  believe  in  my  zeal,  though 
you  perceive  my  impotence,  and  accept  the  very  affectionate 
best  wishes  of  Yours  most  truly, 

F.  Trollope. 


Travelling  in  America.  177 


CHAPTER  X. 

Letters  from  Miss  Sedgwick  and  Mrs.  Howitt. 

Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford. 

New  York,  May  17,  1833. 
I  THANK  you  most  heartily,  my  clear  Miss  Mitford,  for 
your  last  kind  letter,  which  seemed  to  me  more  charming 
than  any  of  its  forerunners;  but,  on  investigation,  I  believe 
its  superiority  consisted  in  its  being  a  little  longer.  Gold  is 
always  gold,  but  a  little  more  of  it  is  always  acceptable.  I 
grieve  to  know  that  you  are  feeling  the  leaden  weight  of 
mortality;  there  are,  no  doubt,  uses  in  every  mode  of  afflic- 
tion, but  that  particular  form  of  it  which  makes  the  body 
press  upon  the  mind,  which  substitutes  weariness  and  im- 
becility and  nothingness  for  the  joy  of  exercise  and  the  fine 
fruits  of  exertion — in  short,  that  horrid  state  of  things  called 
ill-health,  which  subjugates  the  mind  to  its  mere  vehicle  and 
instrument,  is  to  me  one  of  the  most  puzzling  articles  in  our 
probation.  Do  you  not  think  that  some  such  change  as 
crossing  the  Atlantic  would  renovate  you  ?  You  suggest  it 
yourself,  and  therefore  I  am  emboldened  to  urge  it;  you 
cannot  leave  your  father,  nor  would  I  ask  you,  for  I  feel  a 
sort  of  filial  interest  in  whatever  touches  him.  But  is  it  im- 
possible that  he  should  accompany  you  ?  Last  year  an 
English  gentleman  of  seventy-five  came  to  this  country  in 
May,  visited  Niagara,  more  than  four  hundred  miles  from 
this  city,  and  recrossed  the  ocean  in  September.  The  facil- 
ities for  travelling  here  (notwithstanding  the  horrors  record- 
ed against  us)  are  very  great.  We  have  steamboats  and 
canal  navigation  to  Niagara.  A  friend  of  ours  took  tea 
with  us  last  Friday  evening,  who  left  Richmond,  Virginia,  a 
distance  of  nearly  five  hundred  miles,  on  Tuesday  morning, 
and  accomplished  the  journey  without   excessive   fatigue. 

8* 


178  Travelling  in  America. 

Now  I  would  not  certainly  travel  at  this  rate,  but  where  such 
travelling  is  possible  a  passage  through  the  country  cannot 
be  very  formidable,  even  to  a  person  of  advanced  years. 
Apart  from  all  the  delight  I  should  expect  from  seeing  you, 
I  am  sure  you  would  find  much  to  like  and  to  enjoy  here, 
and  for  once  our  country  would  be  painted  by  an  accom- 
plished artist,  who  at  least  was  willing  to  give  it  its  best  ex- 
pression. I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  that  your  father  is  friendly 
to  us,  for  though  I  think  it  absurd  to  be  sensitive  about  the 
opinion  of  foreigners,  yet  the  kind  dispositions  of  those  I 
think  of  as  friends  is  highly  gratifying.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  we  are  nationally  ridiculously  sensitive  on  this  matter 
of  opinion.  It  is  a  kind  of  new-small-townish  feeling,  an 
anxiety  to  be  known,  and  a  determination  to  be  admired 
when  known. 

There  is  undoubtedly  a  crude  stale  of  things  among  us. 
Mrs.  Trollope  (by  the  way,  I  am  exceedingly  obliged  to  you 
for  your  very  fine  account  of  her,  which  has  very  much 
raised  her  in  our  good  opinion)  has  not  much  misstated, 
though  she  has  grossly  caricatured,  us.  You  may  imagine 
in  a  country  where  everybody  travels,  and  where  there  are 
no  acknowledged  distinction  of  classes,  no  barriers  obvious 
to  the  senses,  that  in  such  places  as  steamboats,  canal-boats, 
and  stage-coaches  the  respect  with  which  any  individual  is 
treated  must  greatly  depend  upon  circumstances.  It  is  not 
very  easy  for  a  person  educated  in  a  different  condition  of 
society  to  adapt  themselves  to  the  peculiarities  of  a  new  as- 
pect of  society;  but  from  my  own  experience  I  am  sure  your 
father  is  right  in  saying  that  a  lady  may  travel  from  Georgia 
to  Maine  without  meeting  any  impertinence.  Try  it,  only 
try  it,  my  dear  friend,  and  if  I  am  not  right  I  will  turn  traitor. 

Bryant,  who  is  living  in  a  cottage  at  Hoboken,  a  place  sep- 
arated from  the  most  dense  part  of  the  city  only  by  the  waters 
of  the  Hudson,  and  peaceful  and  beautiful  as  Paradise,  a  fit 
residence  for  a  poet,  has  just  brought  me  a  bouquet  of 
wild-flowers,  tied  with  a  knot  of  Seneca  grass.  Would  that 
I  could  send  it  to  you  !  Its  fragrant  breath  would  speak  for 
me  more  expressively  than  my  pen  can. 

A  neighbor  of  ours,  who  is  not  rich  enough  to  keep  a 


^' Our  Village y  179 

coach,  but  has  sense  enough  to  keep  a  sociable  and  enjoy  it 
daily,  took  me  a  few  days  since  a  little  drive  into  the  country, 
and,  avoiding  the  thronged,  broad  avenues,  selected  an  ob- 
scure road  that,  but  for  occasional  glimpses  of  the  Hudson, 
whitened  with  the  tokens  of  commerce,  sails  and  steamboats, 
would  have  cheated  us  into  the  feeling  that  we  were  a  thousand 
miles  from  the  city.  We  came  to  a  sudden  turn  that  led  into 
a  deeply  shaded,  nooked  lane.  "Ah,  turn  here,  Sydney," 
said  my  companion,  "  into  Miss  Mitford's  lane,  as  you  call 
it."  This,  as  you  may  suppose,  made  my  heart  beat  quicker. 
Is  it  not  something  to  have  given  a  name  and  a  heightened 
charm  to  nature  three  thousand  miles  away?  The  mother 
and  the  son  proceeded  to  tell  me  of  their  exquisite  pleasure 
from  your  works,  of  the  boy's  familiar  acquaintance  with  May 
and  Dash,  etc. 

I  was  reading  your  inimitable  description  of  Dora  Cresvvell 
the  other  day  to  a  friend  of  mine  who  was  confined  to  his  bed 
by  illness.  He  laughed  and  cried  by  turns,  and  averred  there 
could  not  be  a  word  changed  for  the  better,  except  that  of 
reaper  applied  to  Dora.  Being  a  practical  farmer,  and  not 
very  familiar  with  the  license  that  would  allow  you  to  call 
her  a  reaper  though  she  did  not  actually  cut  down  the  grain, 
he  was,  as  we  say,  exercised  about  that  word.  My  good  friend 
is  a  philanthropist,  too,  and  would  hardly  let  me  off  without 
promising  to  interest  you  in  the  cause  of  the  Peace  Society. 
I  had  to  tell  him  that  all  our  sex  were  born  members  of  it. 
There  is  here,  as  I  presume  there  is  in  England,  great  ac- 
tivity in  all  the  modifications  of  the  cause  of  humanity.  New 
York  would  remind  you  of  the  Oriental  faces  on  the  "Anni- 
versary week,"  as  the  week  is  called  when  the  benevolent 
societies  from  all  parts  of  this  great  continent  meet  in  this 
city.  Alas !  Kate  asks  for  a  scrap  of  paper,  and  I  am  too 
much  in  the  habit  of  saying  yes  to  her.  I  have  not,  nor  can 
I,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  express  the  pleasure  your  letters  give 
me.  I  am  truly  concerned  that  you  have  had  any  disappoint- 
ments, and  could  pray  for  protection  from  every  evil  for  you, 
but  I  have  much  faith  in  clouds,  and  must  not  ask  for  all  sun- 
shine, even  for  you. 

My  very  best  regards  to  your  father.     Tell  him  sixty  and 


i8o  ''Our  Village." 

upwards  in  England  is  not  more  than  fifty  here.  Oh  that  I 
had  space  to  write  all  I  would  deduce  from  this  !  I  have  an- 
other nephew  who  is  travelling  in  Europe,  and  will  present 
himself  to  you  within  a  year.  We  think  him  a  clever  and 
accomplished  young  man.  I  hope,  if  he  has  the  happiness  to 
see  you,  he  will  not  appear  to  you  a  North  American  savage. 
Will  my  dear  Miss  Mitford  allow  me  once  more,  after  so 
long  a  time,  the  pleasure  of  telling  her  how  much  pleasure  I 
have  had  in  poring  over  her  letters,  and  re-reading  "Our 
Village,"  and  how  much  delighted  and  how  grateful  I  am 
of  her  kind  remembrance  of  me.  I  am  enchanted  at  having 
before  me  the  prospect  of  meeting  more  of  the  inhabitants 
of  "Our  Village."  Is  it  not  natural  that,  with  such  fresh, 
vivid,  and  agreeable  recollections  of  Sally,  of  Lucy,  of  Har- 
riet and  Joel,  of  the  Loddon,  of  the  copse  and  the  straw,  I 
should  wish  to  see  the  children  of  the  swing  breathing 
creatures,  and  the  perpetual  beauty  of  the  river,  the  fields, 
and  woods.  Alas  !  I  have  only  room  left  to  tell  you  with 
what  true  and  hearty  affection  I  am  yours.  I  cannot  but 
smile  that  the  construction  of  my  sentence  imputes  advanced 
years  to  you,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  and  I  find,  as  I  before 
conjectured  by  your  last  letter,  that,  as  to  distance,  we  are 
equal  travellers  in  this  "  vale  of  tears."  I  am  sure  that  you 
have  made  a  portion  of  it  to  me  a  vale  of  smiles;  but  does 
not  this  bond  draw  us  closer  ?     God  bless  you  ! 

Yours,  E.  M.  Sedgwick. 

Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford. 

New  York,  April  6,  1834. 
I  hoped,  my  dearest  Miss  Mitford,  to  have  heard  again 
from  you  or  of  you  before  I  wrote.  We  have  heard  news- 
paper reports  of  your  being  very  ill.  This  is  a  cruel  way  of 
hearing  from  one  in  whose  welfare  and  happiness  I  take  a 
real  and  deep  interest,  and  whose  departure  from  this  world, 
even  though  we  must  always  dwell  three  thousand  miles 
apart,  would  materially  circumscribe  the  sphere  of  my  en- 
joyments. Should  this  letter  find  you  recovered,  as  I  trust 
in  heaven  it  will  do,  write  to  me  immediately,  and  tell  me  in 
^oodi^ivomanly phrase  your  complaints,  and  whether  you  have 


C.R.  Leslie,  R.A.  i8i 

not  reason  for  expecting  better  health  for  the  future.  Write 
as  you  would  write  to  one  who  cares  for  all  your  maladies 
great  and  small.  Your  life  is  such  a  public  blessing,  and 
such  a  necessity,  as  it  seems  to  me,  to  that  dear  father  (of 
whom  you  have  so  often  made  such  affectionate  mention 
that  I  feel  as  if  he  were  very  near  of  kin  to  me),  that  I  trem- 
ble when  I  think  by  how  frail  a  tenure  you  may  hold  it. 
Thank  you  for  introducing  your  friend  or  your  friend's  hus- 
band to  us;  we  have  found  him  a  most  amusing  and  original 
person,  and  he  has  laid  me  under  everlasting  obligations  to 
him  by  presenting  me  with  a  charming  bust  of  you,  looking 
just  so  intellectual,  sweet-tempered,  and  kind-hearted  as 
does  the  dear  Miss  Mitford  of  my  imagination.  The  little 
figure  is  regularly  presented  to  all  our  friends  and  visitors, 
and  the  sagacious  and  Ukeness-s^oSw^  among  them  pronounce 
it  a  striking  resemblance.  Mr.  W.  has,  I  believe,  decided 
not  to  transfer  his  residence  to  America.  I  think  he  is 
right;  it  is  wisest  to  let  the  young  bees  swarm  for  them- 
selves, the  old  ones  remain  in  the  old  hives.  America  is 
not  the  place  for  an  eminent  artist.  We  are  a  nation  of 
workers,  and  have  not  leisure  or  fortune  for  an  extended 
cultivation  and  patronage  of  the  fine  arts.  We  have  no  so- 
ciety or  association  for  artists.  Irving  said  to  me  this  win- 
ter in  relation  to  Leslie's  experiment  of  a  residence  here, 
"  We  have  plucked  a  star  from  the  firmament."  Poor  Les- 
lie! after  passing  the  winter  in  complete  seclusion  amidst  the 
snows  of  our  highlands,  he  has  decided  to  return  to  England. 
It  is  said  the  government  institution  by  which  he  was  em- 
ployed has  not  kept  faith  with  him ;  his  brother-in-law  told 
me  Leslie  had  lived  too  long  in  England,  and  that  his  Eng- 
lish wife  had  come  resolved  to  be  dissatisfied.  She  is  said 
to  be  a  weak  woman,  full  of  prejudice  and  inflexible  in  her 
English  habits.  I  do  not  blame  her;  it  demands  rare  sense 
and  temper  to  get  the  better  of  all  the  prejudice  of  educa- 
tion, to  divest  ourselves  of  habit  and  association.  We  are 
accustomed  to  the  inconveniences  that  result  from  our  con- 
dition, and  we  can  remove  or  submit  to  them.  An  English- 
woman finds  an  American  servant  intolerable;  we  know 
and  humor  their  peculiarities,  and  thus  get  on  comfortably 


1 82  R.  Westmacoii,  R.A. 

with  them.  Our  own  artists  who  have  not  been  long  enough 
abroad  to  acquire  new  tastes  and  habits  are  happy  and  suc- 
cessful among  us.  Grant  we  have  some  who  would,  I  be- 
lieve, be  distinguished  anywhere.  Allston's  name  must  be 
known  to  you,  and  Cole  paints  nature  so  truly  and  beauti- 
fully that,  dearly  as  I  love  our  misty  mornings,  dewy  hills, 
and  ever-varying  sunsets  in  Berkshire,  I  think  I  could  exist 
through  a  summer  in  New  York  if  I  had  his  landscapes  to 
look  at.  I  regret  that  we  shall  not  se^your  friend  Mrs. 
Westmacott  here.  Her  husband  half  promised  he  would 
bring  the  old  lady,  as  he  calls  her,  across  the  water.  I  hope 
she  will  not  quarrel  with  me  for  being  the  fortunate  subject 
of  Mr.  W.'s  bounty;  she  must  forgive  me  while  she  has  the 
advantage  of  seeing  the  original. 

I  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you,  but  I  have  been  prosing 
on  here  confused  by  half  a  dozen  of  my  petted  nephews 
and  nieces,  who  would  not  be  driven  out  of  my  room.  I 
dare  not  begin  upon  another  sheet,  as  Mr.  W.  tells  me  that 
Mr.  Palmer  is  no  longer  M.P.,  and  I  am  too  sure  my  letter 
would  not  pay  its  own  way.  Have  you  any  other  franking 
friends?  And  will  you  not  come  to  us?  I  know  that  such 
spirits  as  yours  and  your  father's  would  find  much  to  love 
and  commend,  and  you  should  love  merry  England  best, 
and  I  think  it  best  too  if  you  would. 

Kate  says  I  promised  her  a  space.  How  kind  of  you  al- 
ways to  remember  her ! 

Truly  and  affectionately  yours,  E.  M.  Sedgwick. 

P.S. — Aunt  Kitty  never  knows  when  to  stop  when  she 
writes  to  you,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  and  she  has  cut  me  ofif 
with  this  mite  of  a  corner  to  tell  you  how  much  I  love  and 
admire  you,  and  how  I  wish  to  see  you,  and  with  what  pleas- 
ure I  look  upon  the  little  bust  which  Mr.  Westmacott  has 
given  my  aunt,  discovering  that  nothing  would  so  efifectually 
establish  him  in  her  good  graces  as  this  image  of  one  so 
dear  to  her.  Thank  you  again  and  again  for  your  kind  re- 
membrance of  me.  I  am  so  proud  of  a  place  in  Miss  Mit- 
ford's  affections.     Believe  me  to  be, 

Ever  yours  affectionately,  Kate  Sedgwick. 


Fanny  Kemble.  1 83 

PP.S. — I  see  a  great  deal  of  Fanny  Kemble  when  she  is 
in  the  city.  I  admire  and  love  her.  She  is  to  be  in  New 
York  in  a  few  days  to  bid  us  professionally  farewell,  and  is 
soon  after  to  be  married.  Butler  is  a  gentlemanly  man, 
with  good  sense  and  amiable  disposition,  infinitely  her  in- 
ferior. Poor  girl,  she  makes  a  dangerous  experiment;  I 
have  a  thousand  fears  of  the  result.  My  affectionate  re- 
spect to  your  father.  Your  letter  written  in  July  remained 
with  Mrs.  Griffith's  album  in  the  Custom-house,  and  did  not 
get  into  my  hands  till  March. 

The  publication  of"  Our  Village,"  and  Miss  Mitford's  suc- 
cess in  the  drama,  led  to  her  becoming  acquainted  with  Mrs. 
Howilt,  who  sent  her  in  1834  a  copy  of  her  "  Seven  Tempta- 
tions." * 

Mary  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Nottingham,  Feb.  27. 

Dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  rejoice  in  finding  an  occasion 
to  address  you,  that  I  may  express  the  very  great  pleasure 
both  my  husband  and  myself  have  always  derived  from  your 
writing.  We  know  your  "  village,"  and  all  its  crofts,  and 
lanes,  and  people,  and  we  wish  we  had  the  happiness  of  per- 
sonally knowing  you. 

May  I  beg  your  acceptance  of  the  volume  I  send  here- 
with ?  You  are  a  worshipper  of  the  drama  like  myself,  and 
I  hope  you  may  find  something  in  it  to  like. 

My  husband  begs  to  present  his  kind  regards  to  you,  and 
hoping  by  some  good  chance  or  other  we- may  shake  hands 
before  long, 

I  am,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  yours  very  truly, 

Mary  Howitt. 

Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Stockbridge,  Sept.  26, 1834. 
Your  introductory  note  by  Miss  Martineau,  my  dear  Miss 
Mitford,  was  forwarded  to  me  from  New  York  a  few  days 

*  A  volume  of  dramas,  in  which  the  personification  of  the  evil  princi- 
ple attempted  through  various  trials  to  ruin  mankind. 


1 84  Mifs  Martincau. 

since.  I  am  delighted  to  owe  to  you  the  right  to  ask  this 
distinguished  lady  to  visit  us  in  Berkshire.  This  is  a  new 
bond  between  us,  and  though  those  that  already  exist  are 
sufficient  to  bind  me  to  you  for  life,  and  all  beyond,  yet  I 
care  not  how  much  they  are  multiplied.  I  have  participated 
in  your  dramatic  success ;  it  is  an  exalted  sphere,  and  one 
worthy  of  you.  •  How  happy  you  are  in  having  such  an  in- 
fusion of  pure,  disinterested  feeling  in  the  pleasure  of  your 
triumph! — to  attach  a  fellow-conqueror  instead  of  a  captive 
to  your  car.  Your  association  with  your  father  always  seems 
to  consecrate  your  literary  labors,  to  give  you  such  a  sacred 
pleasure  in  success  that  you  must  be  saved  from  all  the  lit- 
tlenesses of  literary  vanity,  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  a  gen- 
erous nature  to  some  object  beyond  self.  Is  it  not  so? 
Dear  Miss  Mitford,  may  this  high  motive  and  reward  long 
be  continued  to  you  ! 

Miss  Martineau  has  been  received  at  New  York  with  a 
cordiality  befitting  her  claims ;  to  tell  the  truth,  our  good 
people  have  been  so  roughly  handled  by  some  of  our  Eng- 
lish friends  that  they  are  now  a  little  shy  of  them,  and  an 
individual  must  have  especial  merit  to  counteract  the  gen- 
eral prejudice.  There  is  a  foundation  of  truth  in  all  censure, 
even  calumny,  and  I  do  not  in  the  least  doubt  that  members 
of  refined  European  society  must  be  often  shocked  at  the 
coarseness  and  occasional  vulgarities  to  be  met  with  in  the 
motley  crowds  of  our  steamboats,  lodging-houses,  and  even 
sometimes  in  our  drawing-rooms ;  but  the  philosophy  of  our 
sagacious  visitors  should  penetrate  below  the  surface.  In  a 
country  absolutely  without  castes,  where  the  childhood  of 
those  who  fill  our  first  offices  was  passed  in  the  family  of 
the  mechanic  or  the  farmer,  the  habits  of  early  life  will  out. 
How  much  should  I  have,  if  we  were  together,  to  say  on  this 
and  kindred  subjects,  all  which  I  should  finish  with  the 
humble  confession  that  we  are  over -sensitive  to  foreign 
opinion,  and  betray  thereby  a  want  of  a  fixed  and  independ- 
ent self-respect.  Miss  Martineau  is  coming  this  week  to 
Stockbridge,  and  I  would  defer  writing  to  you  till  after  that 
great  event,  but  I  am  induced  to  send  this  letter  by  my 
nephew,  Mr.  George  Pomeroy,  who  deserves  the  honor  he 


Theodore  Sedgwick.  185 

covets  of  an  introduction  to  you.  He  missed  seeing  you 
when  he  was  in  England  before,  but  I  trust  he  will  now  be 
more  fortunate.  Thank  you,  my  dear  friend,  for  your  great 
kindness  to,  and  flattering  mention  of,  Theodore  Sedgwick. 
He  was  charmed  with  his  visit  to  you.  Our  girls  were  quite 
annoyed  that  you  should  have  attributed  his  gentlemanly 
air  to  his  visit  to  Paris.  I  mention  this  as  a  pretty  fair  spec- 
imen of  our  national  nervousness  on  certain  subjects.  Since 
Theodore's  return  he  has  made  his  fortune  by  an  engage- 
ment to  a  charming  creature  whose  wealth  is  in  stores  of 
fine  qualities,  embodied  in  a  beautiful  form.  Their  mutual 
attachment  has  been  growing  from  the  time  they  first  met  in 
Stockbridge,  when  my  brother  removed  from  his  residence 
in  New  York  to  my  father's  place  in  Stockbridge,  and  Sarah 
Ashburner  came  from  Bomba}',  via  England,  to  live  in  our 
village.  What  wonderful  means  are  used  to  bring  about 
the  matches  made  in  heaven  ! 

You  ask  news  of  Fanny  Kemble;  I  have  not  seen  her 
since  June,  but  I  had  a  letter  from  her  last  week  written  in 
most  delightful  spirits;  she  is  in  Philadelphia,  her  husband's 
residence,  and  they  are  shortly  going  into  their  own  house, 
where  she  invites  me  to  come  and  see  the  little  English- 
woman manage  her  republican  independent  dependants. 
She  is  publishing  her  journal,  and,  after  scolding  me  for  con- 
fessing that  I  had  some  "flutterings"  about  it,  she  says  that 
every  sheet,  as  it  goes  to  the  press,  is  submitted  to  the  so- 
berer judgment  of  her  husband,  in  which,  she  says,  "you  have 
justly  more  confidence  than  in  mine."  Butler,  though  in- 
ferior in  genius  and  in  all  that  gives  charm  to  the  character, 
has  very  good  common-sense,  is  a  true  American,  and  has 
an  American  ear,  which  is  as  important  in  this  case  as  a 
musical  ear  to  a  composer.  I  must  cut  myself  off  and  give 
you  a  little  extract  from  her  letter,  it  is  so  agreeable,  so 
characteristic : 

"The  beginning  of  your  letter  was  dated  Niagara,  and 
full  of  the  inspirations  of  your  whereabout;  now  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  treat  you  to  the  very  perfection  of  contrast, 
and  reply  in  the  same  spirit  of  my  'whatabout,'  viz.,  book- 
keeping, a  whole  four  pages  of  day-books,  journals,  invoices. 


1 86  Mrs.  Butler. 

commissions,  bills  of  exchange,  percentage,  and  all  the  jar- 
gon of  a  thorough  double-entry  desk.  Now,  pray  exclaim 
aloud,  as  I  have  done  internally  a  thousand  times  since  I 
began  to  learn  this  most  matter-of-fact  of  sciences,  *  Great 
is  the  power  of  love,' " 

So  you  see  what  she  is  about,  a  loving  wife. 

We  expect  Miss  M.  this  week ;  would  it  were  you,  dear 
Miss  Mitford.  Shall  I  confess  to  you  I  have  some  dread 
of  this  wonderful  lady  like  that  I  have  seen  in  some  voy 
simple  people  for  me,  who,  forsooth,  have  thought  me  a  lion, 
me  "an  innocent  beast  of  a  good  conscience."  I  agree  with 
a  good,  simple  lady  of  my  acquaintance  that  "  political  econ- 
omy is  an  excellent  thing;"  but,  alas  !  when  I  read  Miss  M.'s 
books,  I  slip  the  political  economy  as  a  friend  of  mine  did 
the  fnuscles  when  he  studied  anatomy.  But  again,  would  it 
were  you,  and  because  you  are  you. 

I  have  not  yet  thanked  you  for  the  nice  present  of  the 
books,  nor  for  your  kind  intention  of  sending  the  flowers — 
oh,  they  shall  bloom  in  our  sweetest  of  all  valleys,  and  you 
shall  some  day  come  and  see  them  !  Will  you  not  ?  I  l*ave 
so  many  dear  and,  I  think,  charming  friends  who  already 
love  and  honor  you. 

I  walked  from  my  brother  Charles's,  Kate's  father,  to  our 
valley,  eleven  miles,  yesterday.  Can  you  do  more,  my  dear 
lady? 

Mrs.  Butler  is  under  another  engagement  to  perform  anoth- 
er year  for  her  father,  should  he  require  her,  but,  as  he  went 
off  in  a  pet  with  Butler,  his  pride  may  save  her  that  misery. 

[My  aunt,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  says  that  her  letter  is  very 
particularly  dull,  and  this  melancholy  circumstance  is  owing 
to  poor  me.  Can  you  forgive  me  for  such  an  offence  ? 
Thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  your  kind  remembrance  of 
me  :  it  is  one  of  the  many  pleasures,  and  one  of  the  greatest, 
for  which  I  have  to  thank  my  dear  aunt.  Believe  me,  my 
dear  Miss  Mitford,  ever  very  affectionately  (if  you  will  allow 
me  to  quote  your  own  words),  your  own  Kate.] 

How  I  wish  I  could  show  you  our  own  Kate — "  Euphros- 


"  Our  Villager  187 

yne,"  Fanny  Butler  calls  her — and  she  is  no  goddess,  but 
the  very  spirit  of  cheerfulness.  My  letter  is  already  so  full, 
but  I  must  add  my  very  affectionate  regards  to  your  father 
and  my  earnest  prayers  for  you  both. 

Yours  most  truly, 

E.  M.  Sedgwick. 

Miss  Hovi^iTT  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Nottingham,  Feb.  i,  1835. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford,  —  The  most  truly  English 
sketches  in  the  language  are  your  country  volumes.  Well, 
through  these  volumes  we  have  been  wending  this  winter. 
We  had  read  them  before,  and  many  of  the  stories  were  as 
familiar  to  us  as  household  words ;  but  they  have  been  read 
this  time  principally  that  William  might  trace  out  their  local- 
ities, and  a  great  additional  charm  has  his  knowledge  of  your 
part  of  the  country  given  them.  But,  dear  Miss  Mitford, 
you  are  a  bold  woman — nay,  you  are  the  most  imprudent 
woman  I  ever  knew.  I  always  thought  so,  if  it  should  turn 
out,  as  it  does,  that  "Our  Village"  is  Three  Mile  Cross. 
Did  not  your  neighbors  tell  you  so — "The  man  would  have 
been  better  had  he  not  drank  so  much,"  "The  woman,  whose 
fat,  dirty  children  were  the  picture  of  vulgarity,"  "The  man 
who  was  incorrigibly  lazy  and  good-for-nothing,"  "The 
touchy  lady,"  and  so  on.  I  should  have  expected  the  peo- 
ple to  mob  you,  for  I  take  it  for  granted  that  all  these  people 
live  where  you  have  placed  them.  Nobody  can  doubt  for  a 
moment  but  that  they  are  all  sketched  from  the  life.  We 
are  here  divided  into  two  parties  touching  that  same  touchy 
lady :  one  party  stated  that  she  could  not  have  passed 
through  a  courtship  without  ascertaining  what  the  initial  B 
of  her  husband's  name  stood  for;  the  other  says  you  are 
right.     I  do  not  tell  you  to  which  faction  I  belong. 

Your  letter  was  brought  to  me  by  a  very  sweet,  gentle 
girl,  Fanny  Cartledge,  who  is  staying  with  her  friends  in 
Nottingham.  She  has  not  the  pleasure  of  a  personal  ac- 
quaintance with  you,  but  looks  forward  to  it.  I  think  you 
will  like  her  much;  she  will  make  a  very  pretty  sketch  for 
you,  and  must  accompany  you  and  poor  Mayflower's  sue- 


1 88  Crocuses. 

cessor  to  the  copse,  or  the  dingle,  or  violeting,  or  on  a  visit 
to  Lucy. 

I  wish  you  would  come  and  see  our  great  flower-show 
next  month  —  no,  this  month,  February.  The  vernal  cro- 
cuses in  our  meadows — and  beautiful  meadows  they  are, 
too,  on  the  banks  of  the  Trent — but  these  flowers  surpass 
belief,  and  I  always  despair  of  making  one  comprehend  how 
beautiful  they  are.  They  are  seen  to  many  miles'  distance 
— spaces  of  twenty  acres  or  so  in  the  green  flats  of  the 
meadows,  of  one  intense  lilac-color,  as  clearly  and  vividly 
lilac  as  the  grass  around  is  green.  But  when  you  walk 
among  them  the  effect  is  inconceivable,  the  petals,  of  trans- 
parent, tender  hue,  contrasting  so  beautifully  with  the  yellow 
of  the  inside.  The  expanse  is  so  unlike  the  common  cover- 
ing of  the  earth  that  for  one  moment  it  seems  a  sin  to  tread 
them  down.  They  look  almost  spiritual,  and  you  think  of 
the  flowers  of  heaven.  Then,  again,  they  are  so  lavishly 
spread,  so  thick,  springing  up  by  millions,  that  one  longs  to 
grasp  them  by  handfuls,  to  lie  down  among  them,  as  the 
children  do.  But  their  most  beautiful  attribute  is  the  joy 
they  diff"use  over  the  hearts  of  thousands.  They  make  the 
paradise  of  the  poor.  Here  come  the  poor,  pale  children, 
who  have  sat  seaming  stockings,  or  running  lace  thirteen  or 
fourteen  hours  a  day  for  a  few  pence — here  they  come  in 
the  half-hour  they  can  steal  from  their  meals  and  gather  up 
flowers  by  thousands,  and  no  low  alley  shall  you  enter  at 
this  season  but  in  its  poorest  dwelling  you  shall  find  the  lit- 
tle cup  of  crocuses,  brought  by  some  little  child  or  old  man. 
I  wish  you  could  see  them,  dear  Miss  Mitford — what  a  glori- 
ous paper  would  you  write  about  them  ! 

William  admonishes  me  to  make  an  end,  that  the  parcel 
may  go  to-night.         I  am,  my  dear  friend. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Mary  Howitt. 


N.P.Willis.  189 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Letfers  from  N.  p.  Wili-is,  Miss  Martineau,  and  Mrs.  Howitt. 
— Description  of  a  Country  Wedding  by  Miss  Mitford. — 

LETfERS   FROM   MrS.  HoFLAND. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  was  a  most  popular  writer 
both  in  America  and  in  this  country.  He  was  the  originator 
of  the  American  Monthly  Magazine,  and  the  author  of"  Pen- 
cillings  by  the  Way."  The  following  is  the  first  letter  he 
wrote  to  Miss  Mitford : 

Mr.  Willis  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Thursday  Evening. 
Dear  Madam, — I  regret  more  than  I  can  well  express 
my  disappointment  on  arriving  last  night  at  the  Victoria 
too  late  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you.  I  dined  out, 
and  was  not  able  to  get  away  in  time,  and  to-day  I  have  an 
engagement  to  dine  with  Lady  Blessington  at  eight,  which 
deprives  me  again  of  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  I  had  prom- 
ised rayselfin  coming  to  England.  Mr.  Rand  (who  waits 
kindly  for  this  note)  tells  me  it  is  possible  you  do  not  leave 
town  to-morrow.  I  have  taken  your  address,  and  shall  call 
to-morrow  at  twelve  in  the  hope  of  finding  you.  My  literary 
countrymen  would  never  forgive  me  for  leaving  England 
without  seeing  one  of  the  most  unexceptionably  popular  au- 
thors in  the  United  States,  and  as  a  matter  of  popular  feel- 
ing it  would  be  to  me  a  serious  disappointment.  I  hope 
you  will  excuse  the  extreme  hurry  of  this  note,  and  believe 
me,  dear  madam, 

Most  respectfully  and  truly  yours, 

N.  P.  Willis. 

The  first  letter  of  Miss  Martineau  to  Miss  Mitford  was  to 
thank  her  for  one  of  her  tragedies  which  she  had  sent,  and 


190  Harriet  Martineau. 

to  hope  that   they  would   become   personally  acquainted. 
The  next  letter  was  the  subjoined: 

Miss  Martineau  to  Miss  Mitford. 

17  Pludyer  Street,  Thursday  Morning. 
My  dear  Madam, — Mr.  Hayward  tells  me  that  we  are  to 
consider  ourselves  already  acquainted,  and  your  kind  inten- 
tion of  calling  on  me  removes  from  me  all  scruple  in  doing 
so.  I  wish  I  could  come  to  you,  but  my  time  is  parcelled 
out  so  that  I  cannot  get  even  as  far  as  the  Strand  without 
breaking  a  previous  engagement.  I  should  be  most  happy 
to  see  you  this  afternoon,  if  you  would  not  mind  the  risk 
of  having  to  pass  a  few  minutes  with  my  mother  while  my 
banker  and  I  are  settling  a  little  business.  He  comes  at 
five,  and  at  half-past  six,  or  a  little  earlier,  a  friend  calls  for 
me  to  visit  Mrs.  Somerville  at  Chelsea.  I  am  ashamed  to 
ask  you  to  visit  me  thus,  but  it  is  my  only  chance;  and  you 
will  pardon  my  freedom,  I  trust,  if  you  cannot  give  me  the 
privilege  of  seeing  you — a  privilege  I  have  long  desired,  for 
I  owe  more  to  you  than  you  can  possibly  be  aware  of,  though 
you  may  have  discovered  traces  of  the  influence  which  the 
spirit  of  your  writings  has  had  over  me. 

Believe  me,  with  much  respect,  your  obliged 

Harriet  Martineau. 

The  following  letter  from  Miss  Mitford  is  here  published, 
as  it  contains  an  interesting  account  of  her  meeting  Miss 
Martineau  and  Mr.  Willis  : 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson. 

July  23,  1834. 
At  last,  my  dearest  Emily,  I  have  returned  home.  My 
spoiling  place  was  not  the  theatre,  but  the  world.  Every 
day  we  had  from  sixty  to  seventy  visitors,  and  three  times 
more  parties  made  for  me  than  I  could  have  attended,  even 
if  I  had  refused  all  exhibiting  show  parties,  and  gone  only 
to  friends,  dining  with  what  they  called  quiet  parties  of 
twenty  or  thirty,  and  thirty  or  forty  more  arriving  to  tea. 
At  last,  however,  I  was  forced  to  break  off  this,  or  I  should 


Harriet  Martineau.  191 

have  returned  to  the  country  without  seeing  any  public  place 
whatever  ;  and  my  last  week  or  ten  days  were  spent  in  seeing 
all  to  be  seen  in  London  in  the  morning,  and  attending  operas 
and  plays  every  evening — the  artists  all  writing  to  show  me 
their  galleries,  and  the  very  best  private  boxes  everywhere 
being  reserved  for  my  accommodation — no  queen  could  have 
been  more  deferentially  received.  Even  my  maid  was  shown 
everywhere  as  a  part  of  me.  I  have  not  yet  recovered  the 
fatigue ;  but  most  certainly  nothing  could  be  more  gratify- 
ing. I  formed  many  valuable  friendships,  renewed  old  ac- 
quaintances, and  made  many  new.  The  woman  whom  I 
like  best  is  Harriet  Martineau,  who  is  cheerful,  frank,  cor- 
dial, and  right-minded  in  a  very  high  degree ;  and  my  favor- 
ite amongst  the  men  is  decidedly  that  most  accomplished  and 
delightful  person,  Mr.  Hayward  (the  translator  of  "  Faust ''"), 
a  very  young  man,  but  decidedly  the  leader  of  the  best  Lon- 
don society.  I  also  liked  much  Mr.  Willis,  an  American 
author,  whose  unwritten  poetry  and  unwritten  philosophy 
you  may  remember  in  my  American  book,  and  who  is  now 
understood  to  be  here  to  publish  his  account  of  England. 
He  is  a  very  elegant  young  man,  and  more  like  one  of  the 
best  of  our  peers'  sons  than  a  rough  republican. 

Mr.  W.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Nottingham,  Jan.  30,  1835. 

Dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  herewith  beg  to  introduce  to 
you  the  ancient  and  venerable  sage,  Pantika.  I  do  not 
imagine  that  he  will  very  much  please  you,  as  you  are  so 
much  more  interested  in  modern  and  living  characters  than 
in  such  legends  as  he  has  to  relate.  But  I  introduce  him 
principally  for  a  good  excuse  for  renewing  that  acquaintance 
I  much  wish  to  make  again  with  you  when  in  your  pleasant 
country.  We  have  been  reading  your  volumes  a  second 
time  just  lately,  and  I  now  see  the  whereabouts  of  your  situ- 
ations, and  even  your  characters  (whereof  my  charioteer,  Ben 
Therly,  is  not  the  least),  far  better  than  I  did.  With  two 
things  I  have,  however,  been  much  struck.  One  is  that  you 
never  mention,  as  a  characteristic  of  your  landscapes,  those 
grave  herds  of  black  and  white  Berkshire  hogs,  which  are 


192  "  Our  Village." 

seen  as  steadily  grazing  in  the  fields  as  sheep.  You,  I  dare 
say,  do  not  see  anything  strange  in  this,  but  it  struck  me  as 
a  peculiar  feature  of  Berkshire  and  Hampshire.  In  the 
Midland  Counties  you  never  see  anything  of  the  kind.  The 
other  wonderful  thing  is  that,  in  your  very  graphic  descrip- 
tions of  your  woody  lanes  and  copses,  you  never,  as  I  per- 
ceive, deign  to  notice  that  species  of  clematis  which  hangs 
in  such  rich  masses  on  the  bushes  and  along  the  upland 
thickets  all  across  the  south  of  England,  and  is  everywhere 
dignified  with  the  name  of  "Old  Man's  Beard."  Have  you 
taken  a  spite  against  this,  in  my  opinion,  very  ornamental 
plant  ?  If  you  have,  I  wish  you  would,  by  pure  legerdemain, 
transfer  it  to  our  hedges,  for  it  does  not  grow  wild  in  this 
part  of  the  world. 

I  am  right  thankful  to  see  that  you  have  got  in  your  elo- 
quent friend,  Sergeant  Talfourd,  for  Reading.  I  can  imagine 
you  very  much  occupied  and  interested  during  the  progress 
of  that  election  —  ay,  even  canvassing  mightily.  For  my 
part,  I  feel  quite  easy  as  to  the  course  of  political  events. 
I  have  now  just  as  much  fear  of  the  progress  of  reform  be- 
ing arrested  as  I  have  of  the  stream  of  the  Thames  being 
stopped.  To  attempt  such  a  thing  is  to  be  sure  of  getting 
swept  away  by  it,  though  perhaps  not  without  some  damage 
to  the  country. 

Mrs.  Howitt  will  write  with  this  to  thank  you  for  your 
welcome  present  of  your  tragedy,  and  as  welcome  letter. 
After  I  left  you  I  had  a  most  delightful  ramble  of  a  walk. 
Such  weather  at  such  a  season  surely  never  was  before  sent 
out  of  heaven.  I  strolled  through  the  New  Forest,  chatted 
with  Miss  Bowles  in  her  sweet  cottage  near  Lymington, 
went  on  through  Winchester,  Salisbury — traversed  its  great 
plain,  and  wondered  at  Stonehenge.  Then  on  into  the 
beautiful  county  of  Devon;  into  Dartmoor  to  Plymouth, 
across  the  water  to  Falmouth,  St.  Michael's  Mount,  Pen- 
zance, Land's  End.  A  glorious  wild  scene !  Among  the 
Cornish  mines  to  Tintagel — the  very  birthplace  of  King 
Arthur — only  think  of  that!  And  I  have  some  pieces  of 
his  old  castle  too.  I  traversed  Cornwall  on  foot,  from  the 
Land's  End  to  its  northern  boundary,  and  saw  as  many 


Cornwall.  193 

glow-worms  one  night  as  would  stock  all  your  Berkshire 
lanes.  I  also  dined  one  day,  on  a  certain  moor,  upon  a 
turnip -pie  fit  in  size  to  set  on  Arthur's  own  round  table. 
I  found  also  in  that  luxurious  land  fish -pies,  squab -pies, 
sweet -giblet- pies,  and  pies  such  as  neither  Adam  nor  his 
sons  ever  knew,  except  his  Cornish  ones.  You  cannot  im- 
agine what  a  self-indulgent  race  is  congregated  on  that 
western  promontory.  It  is  enough  to  spoil  me  for  the 
rest  of  England  !  Well,  I  must  forget  turnip-pies,  and  tell 
you  that  I  crossed  from  Ilfracombe  to  Swansea,  and  spent 
a  week  most  delightfully  in  the  vale  of  Neath.  If  you  have 
not  seen  the  gardens  and  orangery  at  Margam,  you  have 
not  seen  what  would  charm  all  England  through  the  me- 
dium of  your  pen.  Thence  I  progressed  to  the  banks  of 
the  Wye,  Tintern,  Bristol,  and  home — where  three  merry  faces 
were  looking  out  for  me,  and  were,  I  thought,  after  all,  the 
prettiest  sight  I  had  seen. 

When  does  Bentley  mean  to  let  "Our  Market  Town"* 
be  heard  of?  He  ought  to  fix  on  an  early  market-day.  I 
send  this  parcel  to  his  care,  and  trust  he  will  not  detain  it 
very  long. 

Wishing  you  every  blessing  and  prosperity,  believe  me  to 
be.  Yours  very  truly, 

W.  HOWITT. 

Mr.  Willis  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Travellers'  Club,  Feb.  22, 1835. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Nothing  has  prevented  my 
acknowledging  sooner  your  last  most  delightful  and  kind 
letter  but  the  fear  of  inflicting  a  correspondence  on  you, 
which  I  know  too  well  the  value  of  your  time  to  take  upon 
my  conscience.  It  has  lain  on  my  memory,  however,  with  a 
continual  feeling  of  gratification  and  pleasure,  and,  now  that 
some  weeks  have  elapsed,  perhaps  you  will  permit  me  to  "sup- 
plant the  geraniums"  in  your  mind  while  a  letter  may  be  read. 

Thank  you  most  sincerely  for  the  confidence  with  which 
you  write  to  me  of  your  literary  projects.     Your  instinct  has 

•  Belford  Regis  ? 
9 


194  English  Hospitality. 

not  failed  you  in  selecting  ears  that  are  open  to  everything 
that  concerns  you,  either  as  an  authoress  or  a  woman.  They 
are  hardly  separable,  indeed,  in  your  case — for  you  are  as 
distinguished  in  the  world  as  the  "gentlewoman"  among 
authoresses,  as  you  are  for  your  rank  merely  in  literature. 
I  have  often  thought  you  were  very  enviable  for  the  univer- 
sality of  that  opinion  respecting  you.  You  share  it  with 
Sir  Philip  Sydney,  who  was  in  his  day,  in  the  same  way,  the 
gentleman  among  authors. 

I  look  with  great  interest  for  your  new  tragedy.  I  think 
your  mind  is  essentially  dramatic;  and  in  that,  in  our  time, 
you  are  alone,  I  know  no  one  else  who  could  have  written 
"Rienzi,"  and  I  felt  "Charles  I."  to  my  fingers'  ends,  as  one 
feels  no  other  modern  play.  If  I  were  to  "  farm  out "  your 
mind  {stii  generis  as  your  village  sketches  are),  I  would  have 
a  tragedy  every  year. 

You  very  kindly  suggest  a  book  to  me  on  England.  I 
cannot  do  it,  and  I  will  convince  you  of  it  in  a  moment.  I 
have  been  overwhelmed  with  kindness  from  the  first  step  on 
the  shores  of  this  country,  and  I  have  seen  everything  en 
beau.  Not  falsely,  but  quite  seriously,  I  could  not  with  truth 
express  myself  except  in  superlative  admiration  of  every- 
thing in  England ;  and  this,  though  a  true  view,  would  seem 
in  a  book  like  a  picture  without  shade — insipid.  Besides,  my 
countrymen  would  tear  me  in  pieces  if  I  were  to  say  in 
print  a  tenth  part  of  what  I  feel  on  the  subject.  And  then 
my  whole  experience  has  been  in  a  vein  of  magnificent,  but 
still  private,  hospitality,  and  I  could  not  make  a  book  inter- 
esting without  trenching  on  what  is  sacred.  I  have  a  great 
reverence  for  household  gods.  Still,  I  am  writing  constant- 
ly for  an  American  periodical  (the  New  York  Mirror) 
sketches  of  distinguished  people,  etc.,  etc.,  and  these  will 
convey  to  my  countrymen  the  most  of  what  I  feel  and  see, 
and  in  a  shape  which  will  never  reach  England.  I  am  flat- 
tered all  the  same  by  your  suggestion  en  meme  temps. 

I  met  Jane  Porter  and  Miss  Aiken  and  Tom  Moore,  and 
a  troop  more  of  beaux  esprits,  yesterday  at  dinner.  What  an 
intoxicating  life  it  is !  I  never  shall  be  content  elsewhere. 
Any  other  country  now  would  unsphere  me. 


opera.  195 

I  hope  to  see  you  in  town,  and  really  feel  a  strong  dispo- 
sition to  flatter  myself  that  I  might  secure  your  lasting 
friendship.  If  the  sincerest  admiration  and  the  most  kind- 
ly leaning  of  heart  towards  you  are  at  all  provocative  of 
return,  I  may  already  write  myself,  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Faithfully  your  friend,  N.  P.  Willis, 

Mary  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Nottingham,  April  17,  1835. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  meant  to  have  written  you 
a  long  letter  relating  to  ballads  and  tragedies,  ancient  and 
modern,  on  which  subject  I  have  a  desire  to  say  something; 
but  I  will  not  do  so  at  this  time,  lest  my  wisdom  should  be 
thrown  away,  seeing  this  letter  will  reach  you  at  a  moment 
when  you  will  be  occupied  with  other  thoughts.  I  therefore 
present  myself  before  you  only  to  assure  you  of  our  best, 
our  kindest,  wishes  for  your  complete  success  on  Easter 
Monday  night.  Could  I  untrammel  myself  from  circum- 
stances which  are  as  little  controlled  as  the  winds  of  heaven, 
I  would  myself  be  in  London  to  witness  your  triumph.  As 
it  is,  I  can  only  be  present  in  spirit,  a  far  less  satisfactory 
mode  than  in  body;  but  you  may  be  assured  I  shall  be 
there,  though  not  visible  to  your  eyes. 

The  title  of  your  new  English  opera  has  not  yet  reached 
us,  but  I  have  a  feeling  what  the  kind  of  subject  will  be — 
full  of  freshness,  beauty,  and  happiness,  with  just  enough 
trouble  to  enhance  all  the  felicity  which  crowns  the  piece. 
I  hear  (in  fancy)  the  English  songs,  the  English  melodies. 
I  see  the  English  hall,  the  village,  the  people — a  peep  into 
an  English  Arcadia.  I  see  peasants  haymaking,  sunshine, 
summer  flowers,  trees  full  of  leaf,  and  everything  that  gives 
us  a  sense  of  peace,  happiness,  and  festivity;  a  wedding  pro- 
cession from  an  old  hall — marriage,  songs  and  dances,  the 
ringing  of  bells  heard  in  joyous  bursts  through  the  merry 
music  of  the  village  festival.  All  these  happy  images  and 
joyful  sounds  are  present  to  my  mind,  dear  Miss  Mitford, 
when  I  think  of  your  English  opera,  and  it  seems  to  my 
fancy  well  worth  a  journey  to  London  to  see  and  hear  any- 
thing so  full  of  the  amenities  of  human  life,  so  fresh,  so  pure, 


196  Literary  Pensions. 

so  inspiriting  as  you  would  make  it — such  scenes  and  such 
life  as  many  of  Claude  Lorraine's  pictures  are  full  of.  You 
will  laugh  at  me,  I  dare  say,  and  tell  me  I  am  as  far  from  the 
mark  as  I  was  when  I,  in  my  simplicity,  took  the  people  of 
your  village  for  living  men  and  women  and  children.  I  am 
half  ashamed  of  my  credulity  now;  I  ought  to  have  known 
enough  of  author-craft  to  be  sure  all  was  not  truth  which 
seemed  like  it,  but  that  the  skill  of  the  master  consisted 
most  in  creating  what  looked  most  like  truth. 

Are  you  not  delighted  with  the  patronage  Sir  Robert  Peel 
has  shown  to  literary  men  and  women  ?  Here  it  is  that  the 
Tories  are  superior  to  the  Liberals.  How  different  was 
their  conduct  when  they  deprived  those  veteran  authors — 
of  whom  Coleridge  and  William  Roscoe  were  two — of  the 
pension  they  received  from  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature. 
Sir  Robert  Peel  has  done  great  honor  to  himself.  I  grant 
that  the  pensions  are  small,  but  to  persons  of  inexpensive 
habits,  as  some  of  these  are,  quite  sufficient  to  make  them 
comparatively  rich.  But  it  is  the  spirit  of  the  gift  which 
charms  me.  Statesmen  ought  to  know  that  a  part  of  a  na- 
tion's strength,  a  great  deal  of  a  nation's  glory,  is  in  the 
hands  of  its  literary  men;  and  where  literature  is  honored 
by  the  rulers  it  will  also  be  honored  by  its  people.  Sir 
Robert  Peel  has  acted  nobly ;  these  pensions  are  not  enough 
for  bribes,  and  demand  no  compromise  of  principle.  I  re- 
gard them  as  an  honor  done  to  literature,  honorable  alike 
to  the  giver  and  the  receiver. 

Go  on,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  with  your  writings,  which  are 
so  entirely  English,  which  do  our  English  hearts  good  to 
read,  and  which  must  make  our  national  manners,  scenes,  and 
feelings  so  familiar  and  so  delightful  to  foreigners,  and  you 
will  abundantly  deserve,  and  assuredly  shall  receive,  a  hand- 
some annuity  from  some  future  premier — heaven  knows ! 
but  I  fear  it  will  be  long  before  a  Whig  or  a  Radical  will  do 
half  as  much.  It  is  my  honest  opinion  that  they  think  us 
writers,  who  meddle  neither  with  Church  or  State,  Political 
Economy  or  Population,  as  little  better  than  house-sparrows 
that  the  village  church-warden  will  buy  at  a  farthing  a  head. 

You  honor  greatly  my  mention  of  our  beautiful  crocuses. 


A  Country  Wedding.  197 

I  wish  now  you  could  see  a  wild  tulip,  which  is  native  to  the 
same  meadows,  though  it  does  not  flower  there.  I  saw  yes- 
terday three,  which  had  been  removed  to  a  garden,  and  after 
three  years'  cultivation  produced  the  most  splendid  yellow 
tulip  I  ever  saw.  I  would  fain  send  you  a  garland  of  such 
English  flowers,  for  the  love  I  bear  your  English  opera. 

Good-bye,  and  may  every  good  fortune  attend  you.  My 
husband  unites  in  every  kind  wish  and  messages  of  love,  if 
you  will  accept  them.  I  write  to  you  in  town  ;  but  you  must 
make  kind  remembrances  acceptable  to  your  father  from  my 
husband.     I  am,  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Yours,        M.  HowiTT. 

P.S. — I  am  sure  you  congratulate  me  on  my  happiness  in 
finding  myself  so  handsomely  used  in  Blackwood's  Magazine. 
You  cannot  tell,  you  always  have  lived  in  the  sunshine  of 
public  favor,  how  charming  such  a  notice  as  this  is.  It  is 
almost  worth  while  to  have  sat  in  the  darkness  to  experience 
afterwards  the  breaking-in  of  light. 

It  may  be  interesting  to  compare  the  picture  which  Mrs. 
Howitt  here  supposes  Miss  Mitford  to  draw  of  a  country 
wedding  with  an  actual  description  of  one  which  I  have 
found  among  Miss  Mitford's  letters,  written  at  a  later  date 
to  Miss  Barrett : 

"  I  have  been  to-day,  for  an  hour,  to  sweet  Lucy  Anderdon's 
wedding-breakfast.  My  father  insisted  on  my  going.  I 
could  not  go  with  them  to  church,  or,  rather,  I  could  not  get 
courage  to  leave  him  for  so  long.  It  was  a  beautiful  scene 
— the  bride  exquisitely  fair,  and  modest,  and  graceful — the 
bridegroom  a  joyous,  animated  young  man,  a  very  imperson- 
ation of  happiness.  Six  bridesmaids,  all  so  young  and  so 
pretty,  and  crowds  of  elegant  men  and  lovely  women  taste- 
fully dressed,  a  beautiful  house  and  place,  the  very  banquet 
a  picture  —  bells,  bands  of  music,  village  schools,  children 
strewing  flowers,  and  all  that  is  pleasant  to  the  eye  and  to 
the  mind ;  but  sweet,  sweet  Lucy  the  charm  of  all !  May 
God  bless  her !  Among  our  parting  words — ay,  when  part- 
ing from  the  father  and  mother  to  whom  she  is  all — she  said 


198  N.  P.  Willis. 

to  me, '  The  moment  you  hear  how  Miss  Barrett  is,  write  to 
me.'  May  Heaven  bless  her !  I  like  him ;  he  seems  thor- 
oughly open-hearted,  good,  and  kind — very  different  from 
her,  and  perhaps  the  better.  The  father  and  mother  ap- 
prove it  thoroughly,  and  were  happier  under  it  than  I  could 
have  thought.  I  could  not  help  crying;  I  never  can  when 
I  see  joy." 

N.  P.  Willis  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Athenaeum,  London,  April  22,  1835. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  am  anxious  to  see  your  play 
and  your  next  book,  and  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  the 
drama  is  your  J)ied,  though  I  think  laurels,  and  spreading 
ones,  are  sown  for  you  in  every  department  of  writing.  No- 
body ever  wrote  better  prose,  and  what  could  not  the  author 
of"Rienzi"do  in  verse?  I  should  like  to  talk  over  this 
with  you. 

For  myself  I  am  far  from  considering  myself  regularly 
embarked  in  literature,  and  if  I  can  live  without  it,  or  ply 
any  other  vocation,  shall  vote  it  a  thankless  trade,  and  save 
my  "  entusymussy  "  *  for  my  wife  and  children — when  I  get 
them.  I  am  at  present  steeped  to  the  lips  in  London  so- 
ciety, going  to  everything,  from  Devonshire  House  to  a  pub- 
lisher's dinner  in  Paternoster  Row,  and  it  is  not  a  bad  olla 
podrida  of  life  and  manners.  I  dote  on  "  England  and  true 
English,"  and  was  never  so  happy  or  so  at  a  loss  to  find  a 
minute  for  care  or  forethought. 

I  really  have  ten  thousand  things  I  wish  to  write  about  or 
talk  about  to  you ;  but  a  letter  is  a  needle's  point  to  dance 
upon,  and  I  must  keep  all  my  flourishes  till  I  see  you.  No 
letter  is  so  small,  however,  that  I  cannot  express  in  it  my 
happiness  and  pride  in  your  friendship,  and  I  beg  you  to 
believe,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  that  your  kindness  is  appreciated 
and  your  regard  sought  by  no  one  more  sensitively  than, 
Faithfully  and  always  yours,  N.  P.  Willis. 

*  Enthusiasm. 


Mrs.  Howitt.  199 

Mrs.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

May  14  [1835  ?]. 

William  is  busy  about  his  "  Rural  Life,"  and  to  my  mind  it 
promises  extremely  well.  I  think  you  will  like  it.  I  never 
told  you  that  his  birthday  and  yours  fall  on  the  same  day — 
the  i8th  of  December;  and  last  year  we  honored  them  to- 
gether, and  a  very  pleasant  household  festival  we  made,  wish- 
ing many  a  time  we  had  you  with  us. 

But  I  meant  to  have  told  you,  moreover,  that  the  Star  of 
Bethlehem,  a  few  petals  of  which  you  sent,  grows  here  in 
these  meadows.     How  beautiful  these  wild-flowers  are ! 

Good-bye,  dear  Miss  Mitford;  I  have  yet  a  deal  to  say 
about  tragedies  and  ballads,  but  that  I  leave  to  another 
time.     God  bless  you  I  I  am,  affectionately, 

M.  Howitt. 

P.S. — William  sends  his  love,  if  you  will  accept  it,  and 
best  and  kindest  regards  to  Dr.  Mitford. 

Mrs.  Hofland  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Kensington,  June  14, 1835. 

My  very  dear  Friend, — Exactly  as  I  received  your  very 
dear  note  I  was  sitting  down  to  tell  you  an  incident,  and  I 
must  tell  it  you  before  I  thank  you  for  it — />.,  for  the  note. 

On  Sunday  night  my  good  man  called  aloud  in  his  sleep 
something  which  was  uttered  in  a  very  exulting  tone;  there- 
fore, though  he  awoke  me  in  the  next  room,  I  did  not  think 
I  ought  to  awaken  him  to  explain  it.  He  very  seldom 
dreams,  and,  unlike  me,  never  is  sorrowful  in  his  sleep  when 
he  does.  The  next  morning,  however,  I  said,  "  What  could 
you  be  shouting  about  before  sunrise — have  you  any  recol- 
lection of  it  ?"  "  Oh,  yes  ;  I  saw  Stephen  Lane  at  Lord's 
among  the  cricketers ;  he  is  a  fine,  athletic  young  fellow,  and 
I  called  out  to  everybody,  '  Look  at  Stephen  Lane,  look  at 
Stephen  Lane.' "  Now  he  had  said  before  he  went  to  bed, 
"  I  shall  go  to  Lord's  ground  to-morrow,"  and  I  had  an- 
swered, "  I  wish  Miss  Mitford  was  going  with  you,"  having 
often  heard  him  wish  you  were  going,  and  perhaps  he  fell 


200  Fanny  Kemble. 

asleep  musing  on  you  and  the  said  Stephen.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  it  is  evident  you  had  given  him  a  strong  impression ; 
indeed,  it  is  so  strong  he  describes  the  Stephen  of  his  vision 
as  accurately  as  possible,  which  is  in  fact  Stephen  in  his 
young  days — strong  and  tall,  and  active  and  joyous.  In  my 
early  life  it  so  happened  that  in  Sheifield  we  had  some 
butchers  just  like  him,  and  there  was  a  very  clever  satirical 
poem  which  began — 

"  In  a  fair  country  stands  a  filthy  town, 
By  bugs  and  butchers  held  in  high  renown  " — 

and  which  I  never  recollect  without  seeing  in  my  mind's 
eye  perhaps  the  three  very  handsomest  samples  of  man,  as 
to  person,  I  have  seen  in  the  course  of  my  whole  life,  and, 
what  is  more,  not  one  of  the  three  was  a  vulgar  man  or  of 
deficient  manners. 

I  have  just  finished  Fanny  Kemble's  books,  and  when  I 
say  that  I  read  them  the  next  after  your  most  charming  vol- 
umes, and  was  amused,  and  on  the  whole  much  pleased  with 
them,  I  am  sure  they  are  meritorious,  let  the  critics  say  what 
they  may.  When  I  saw  her  on  the  stage  I  could  not  admire 
her,  for  the  life  of  me,  though  I  thought  her  clever;  but  if 
she  can  follow  you,  and  not  prove  (as  Mrs.  Norton  does)  a 
flat,  uninteresting,  almost  mawkish  picture  of  fine  folks,  in 
which  the  truth  and  fine  writing  (however  good)  leave  you 
weary  and  dull,  she  must  be  good,  malgre  occasional  rough- 
ness and  hasty  conclusion,  the  result  of  youth  and  inexpe- 
rience. 

It  is  quite  evident  that  on  her  arrival  she  did  not  like  the 
Americans,  because  she  had  not  been  accustomed  to  a  peo- 
ple who,  full  of  the  higher  energies  and  better  characteristics 
of  our  common  nature,  were  deficient,  not  in  intellect,  but  in 
forms  and  conventional  points — who  were,  in  fact,  what  we 
were  half  a  century  ago ;  but,  as  she  goes  on,  you  see  she 
becomes  better  informed,  better  in  conception,  and,  as  she 
is  evidently  honest  in  all  things,  she  speaks  what  she  feels 
and  thinks.  There  is  in  her  a  love  for  nature,  a  passion  for 
flowers,  a  power  of  rising  above  earth  and  earthly  things,  a 
contempt  for  the  drudgery  of  her  profession,  and  an  estima- 


Mifs  Sedgwick.  201 

tion  of  the  poetic  character.  It  is  her  affliction  to  represent, 
not  to  originate,  which  bespeaks  her  mind  superior  to  her 
station.  During  all  the  first  volume  I  felt  sorry  that  she 
lived  in  America;  in  the  second  I  see  she  may  live  there 
and  be  happy  also. 

Mr.  Dilke  might  find  sentences  znd  phrases  of  puerility,  the 
repetitions  are  childish,  and  the  opinions  ill-formed — nay, 
the  very  language,  which  is  that  of  an  half-educated  girl,  is 
undeniably  bad;  but  along  with  this  there  is  a  raciness,  sim- 
plicity, and  downrightness  very  attractive. 

The  best  account  I  have  read  of  America,  as  it  now  is,  I 
have  found  in  a  book  written  by  H.  Tudor,  Esq.  (a  towns- 
man of  my  own  whom  I  knew  very  well  in  his  early  life, 
some  thirty  years  since).  He  is  their  warm  admirer,  but, 
of  course,  he  found  some  things  not  quite  comme  il  faut. 
Now — how  should  they  be  so  in  the  new  and  peculiar  state 
in  which  they  stand  ? — to  me,  as  the  world  in  which  the 
poor  can  live  and  thrive,  they  are  all  glorious. 

Thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  the  verses  I  have  sent  to 
New  York.  I  think  it  probable  the  publication  of  "The 
Pearl "  may  cut  my  book  out,  but  there  is  room  for  both  to 
a  certain  point;  at  all  events,  I  personally  wished  them  to 
try,  but  I  have  told  them  I  do  no  more.  I  find  Newman, 
who  bought  my  stories  of  Longmans,  has  sold  a  great  many 
to  New  York,  which  accounts  for  their  being  anxious  to  get 
my  name  as  editor;  but,  indeed,  my  child's  tales  had  long 
had  a  run  there,  which  accounts  for  Pilbrow  and  Illman 
wishing  to  try  the  work  orrce  more.  In  point  of  fact  the 
binding  never  is  done  well,  and  in  that  alone  they  failed. 
The  book  is  full  as  good  as  any  here,  and  very  much  more 
abundant  in  matter.  I  saw  the  other  day  at  Mr.  Linton's  a 
journal  (which  sells  there  for  fourpence  English)  most  ad- 
mirable in  every  respect,  containing  reviews,  anecdotes,  de- 
scriptions, etc.,  all  very  good,  far  better  paper  and  printing 
than  ours,  with  a  neat  back  into  the  bargain.  With  Willis's 
"  Melanie,"  etc.,  I  have  been  delighted,  and  indeed  affected, 
more  than  with  any  poetry  I  ever  read  in  my  life.  I  won- 
der whether  he  is  the  gentleman  I  met  at  Mr.  Wilson's  when 
I  went  to  spend  an  evening  there  with  Miss  Edgeworth.     I 

9* 


202  Society. 

remember  there  a  young,  stylish-looking  man  (whom  I  set 
down  as  a  nobleman  or  as  an  Oxford  man),  but  he  was  in- 
troduced to  me  as  Mr,  Somebody,  an  American  from  Phila- 
delphia. He  was,  however,  my  beau-ideal  of  a  gentleman, 
somewhat  a  leet/e  too  much  dressed;  but  he  was  young  and 
handsome,  and  it  became  him  well.  He  was  a  man  moving 
everywhere  in  our  aristocratic  circles — this  is  about  three 
or  four  years  since. 

When  I  used  to  spend  a  month  or  two  at  the  time  at  St. 
Leonard's,  the  house  was  always  full  of  lords  and  ladies;  as 
one  went  another  came.  I  always  found  them  very,  very 
pleasant  in  conduct  and  manners,  the  women  lively  and 
agreeable,  but  the  men  what  I  should  call  dull.  Old  Lady 
Cork  told  me,  "she  could  not  imagine  how  I  got  on  so  well, 
for  people  of  my  description  were  always  expected  to  toady 
or  fiddle,  and  she  couldn't  see  that  I  took  the  trouble  to  do 
either."  I  told  her  that  I  was  too  old  and  too  honest  for 
either,  yet  it  was  plain  I  did  get  on. 

July  6. 

The  inside  sheet  has  been  written  a  long  time,  and  I  could 
not  get  a  frank,  and  I  cannot  rewrite  it,  and  have  nothing 
else  to  say,  save  that  your  work  is  the  only  one  going  at  our 
libraries.  I  am  reading  Mr.  Beckford's  last,  and  am  exceed- 
ingly pleased  with  it.  In  the  other  sheet  I  was  answering 
your  question  —  "Did  not  Mr.  Hofland  think  our  aristoc- 
racy the  most  amiable  and  sensible  in  manners?" — by  speak- 
ing of  my  own  experience  first  during  a  long  period  in  which 
I  went  (when  I  could  raise  dresses)  to  Lord  Harcourt's. 
He  exactly  agrees  with  you.  He  finds  Lord  and  Lady 
Carnarvon  most  amiable,  and  to  him  as  friendly  as  possible. 
During  the  time  of  his  fever  I  used  to  receive  the  very  kind- 
est notes  from  Lord  C,  entering  into  all  the  particulars  of 
his  case,  and  telling  me  how  his  own  health  was,  just  as  if 
we  had  been  old  friends.  So  far  as  I  have  seen,  they  are 
the  very  pleasantest  people  to  live  with.  I  do  not  know  so 
sweet  a  young  woman  as  Lady  Jemima  Eliot ;  she  calls  and 
sits  with  me  half  an  hour  now  and  then,  and  treats  me  al- 
most with  affection,  purely  becausre  she  fancies  my  books 
may  do  her  children  good. 


Society.  203 

The  Thompsons,  with  whom  my  cousin,  Miss  Rolls,  lives, 
are  the  best  people  in  the  world  from  all  I  can  hear,  and 
Smith  tells  me  that,  since  Lord  Beresford's  marriage,  he  is 
become  the  most  agreeable,  kind-hearted  creature  that  ever 
was  born.  All  the  world  knows  he  used  to  be  stiff  and 
proud  enough. 

Miss  Agnes  Strickland  was  here  yesterday,  very  wroth  at 
the  publishers  of  her  "  Pilgrim  of  Walsingham,"  being  sure 
that  a  work  so  highly  spoken  of  must  sell  well;  but  I  think 
she  is  mistaken,  for  it  does  not  always  follow. 

Mrs.  Hall  has  got  home,  and  better,  from  Brighton,  but 
her  left  hand  is  still  contracted. 

I  find  Miss  Landon  wrote  Lady  Stepney's  book — I  never 
read  it.  She  had  a  hundred  pounds,  and  grumbles  much, 
as  she  says  it  took  her  more  time  than  writing  a  new  one 
would  have  done. 

Mr.  Hofland  bids  me  thank  you  very  much  for  the  flower- 
seeds.  He  will  send  you  some  clarkia,  if  you  have  none.  It 
flourishes  much  with  us,  and  is,  I  think,  a  very  elegant  flower. 

My  review  of  "  Belford  Regis  "  is  to  be  in  next  month, 
the  Lady's  Magazine  man  says.  We  go  to  Yorkshire  on  the 
2ist.  Mr.  H.  is  exceedingly  harassed  with  the  Suffolk 
Street  Gallery,  which,  by-the-bye,  many  people  say  (those 
who  know)  is  far  better  than  the  Royal  Academy  this  year. 
I  have  not  been  yet  to  the  latter,  but  I  have  heard  your 
picture  spoken  of  by  many,  and  always  in  high  terms  of 
praise.  I  am  glad  you  have  heard  from  Miss  James,  and 
are  on  terms  with  Macready.  The  magazine  put  in  all  the 
beautiful  songs  I  sent  them  from  "Sadak" — they  are  very 
sweet  ones.* 

My  master  begs  his  kind  regards  to  you  and  the  doctor, 
to  whom  pray  offer  mine,  and  believe  me, 

Your  truly  affectionate  friend,  B.  Hofland. 

Mrs.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

July  7,  1835. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  am  sure  you  have  thought 
me  long,  very  long,  in  replying  to  your  last,  but  the  truth  is 

*  *'  Songs  from  '  Sadak  and  Kalasrade,' "  an  opera  by  Miss  Mitford. 


204  "  B  elf ord  Regis:' 

we  are  at  a  little  loss  to  know  best  how  to  serve  you  re- 
specting "  Belford  Regis."  We  live  far  more  out  of  any 
clique,  far  more  without  connections,  literary  or  influential, 
than  yourself,  and  as  the  volumes  had  been  reviewed  both 
in  the  Atkenceum  and  Taifs  Magazine — the  only  periodicals 
we  have  any  connection  with — and  the  newspapers  here  are 
so  utterly  worthless,  and  move  in  so  circumscribed  a  sphere 
that  no  notice  they  might  give  of  your  book  could  serve  you, 
we  felt  a  little  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  do  it,  and  yet  so  de- 
sirous of  doing  something  as  not  to  be  willing  to  give  it  up. 
Besides,  William  was  just  about  going  to  London,  and  it  was 
thought  best  not  to  write  to  you  till  after  his  return.  I  am 
now  doing  so.  He  found  "Belford  Regis"  very  much  liked, 
and  had  a  good  deal  of  talk  with  Mr.  Bentley  both  about  it 
and  your  other  works,  and  wherein  the  peculiar  excellence 
of  them  lies — all  new  light  thrown  in  upon  the  twilight  of 
the  poor  publisher's  brain.  I  expect  he  will  look  upon  you 
henceforth  as  a  most  philosophical  writer,  who  is  to  do  sig- 
nal service  in  the  regeneration  of  English  society. 

I  believe  a  set  of  paragraphs  will  go  through  divers  pro- 
vincial papers — their  names  I  cannot  tell — but  William  has 
put  them  in  a  train  to  do  so.  Unfortunately,  Mr.  Bentley 
does  not  send  his  books  to  our  only  London  newspaper 
friends,  so  that  extracts  cannot  be  given. 

But  the  most  important  thing,  I  think,  is  a  paper  on  you 
and  your  writings,  which  W.  is  to  furnish  to  the  Atlmiceum, 
and  for  which  you  may  look  in  about  a  fortnight — so  prepare 
yourself 

I  am  writing  in  great  haste,  having  an  accumulation  of 
work  on  my  hands,  and  yet  being  unwilling  to  delay  writing 
to  you  any  longer.  I  shall  send  you  an  account  some  day 
of  how  we  spent  Whitsun-Monday — it  would  make  a  beau- 
tiful bit  of  English  country  life  for  you. 

Good-bye,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  and  with  best  wishes  for 
you  and  kindest  regards  to  Dr.  Mitford,  to  your  conserva- 
tory, your  geraniums,  your  bay- tree,  your  busy  bees,  your 
village,  your  town,  and  all  that  appertains  to  you,  which  is 
about  to  be  set  forth  with  due  honor, 

I  am  very  truly  yours,  M.  Howitt. 


Poetry.  205 

P.S. — William  is  writing  about  you  this  very  moment,  but 
as  yet  I  have  not  heard  a  word  of  it,  so  I  shall  tell  no  tales. 

The  following  lines,  written  apparently  by  one  of  Miss 
Mitford's  friends,  but  bearing  no  signature,  were  found 
among  her  letters : 

A  Wish  (too  personal,  perhaps). 

I  fain  would  sing  before  I  sleep 

A  little  song  that  shall  survive 
The  heart  that  gave  it  voice,  and  keep 

My  memory,  when  I'm  dust,  alive. 

For  thee,  Leona  dear,  I  fain 

Would  leave  a  little  lay  behind, 
To  waken  up  the  past  again, 

With  all  its  music,  in  thy  mind. 

It's  sad,  sweet  music — such  alone 

As  we  on  earth  may  hope  to  hear 
Where  mingles  e'en  in  mirth  a  tone 

Of  mourning — dirge-like,  yet  most  dear. 

Dear,  while  death's  phantom  shade,  that  lies 
O'er  all,  brings  out  some  sparks  divine 

Within  our  souls,  as  in  the  skies 
Night's  shadow  gives  the  stars  to  shine. 

Then  call  not  my  ambition  vain, 

If  I  would  shun  the  common  lot 
To  be  a  linklet  in  the  chain 

Of  life — break  off — and  be  forgot. 

Among  the  many  millioned  throng 

Who  on  the  world's  wide  stage  have  moved, 

I  fain  would  sing  a  little  song 
To  tell  that  I  have  lived  and  loved. 


2o6  American  Scenery. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Letters  from    Miss    Sedgwick,  N.  P.  Willis,  W.  Howitt,  and 
George  Ticknor. 

Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Stockbridge,  Aug.  6,  1835. 
My  dear  Friend, — The  blanks  there  are  in  our  corre- 
spondence are  not  blanks  in  our  relations,  I  trust,  for  with 
me  they  are  filled  with  many  pleasant  recollections,  many 
flights  of  thoughts  which,  bless  them !  have  wings,  to  you, 
and  many,  many  earnest  desires  for  your  happiness  and 
prosperity  in  all  your  doings.  Have  you  been  conscious 
within  the  last  days  of  July  of  any  particular  absence  of 
mind  }  Has  that  spirit  of  yours  which  so  loves  to  wander 
over  the  gifted  and  enjoyed  places  of  Nature  and  blend  it- 
self with  all  that  is  happy  and  good  and  beautiful  in  the  so- 
cial relations  —  has  it  not  been  conscious  of  any  unseen 
influence?  if  not,  then,  like  poor  Ophelia,  I  am  the  more  de- 
ceived, for  when  I  was  sitting  with  Miss  Martineau  on  Laurel 
Hill  (a  beautiful  eminence  that  rises  almost  from  the  midst 
of  our  village),  and  looking  from  Sacrifice  Rock  (a  name 
that  our  young  people  have  bestowed  on  the  rocky  sum- 
mit, where  the  poor  Indian  girl  of  my  "  Hope  Leslie  "  lost 
her  arm) — when  we  were  sitting  there,  and  looking  down  on 
the  lovely  meadows,  we  talked  of  you,  and  wished  for  you, 
and  when  I  drove  our  blessed  friend  down  a  beautiful  ravine 
between  a  mountain  and  the  brimful  Housatonic,  oh,  then 
how  we  wished  for  you,  and  thought  of  your  drives  in  your 
pony-phaeton !  and  when  we  issued  from  the  mountain  caves 
(a  chasm  between  our  mountains  where  some  convulsion  of 
Nature  has  piled  the  rocks  one  on  another  so  long  ago  that 
trees  have  sprung  from  their  crevices  and  died,  and  other 
trees  have  sprung  from  them,  and  the  rocks  are  covered  with 


* '  Bel  ford  Regis. "  207 

mosses  and  plumed  with  ferns) — when  we  came  out  of  this 
wild  solitude  and  looked  upon  the  wide-spread,  smiling  scene 
before  us,  the  yellow  harvest-fields  on  the  hill-side,  the  rich 
meadows,  our  clear,  little  river  contriving  to  wind  in  every 
possible  way  through  them,  so,  like  an  ingenious  child,  to 
stay  till  the  last  minute,  and  the  white  houses  of  our  village 
peeping  here  and  there  through  the  trees  that  embower  each 
habitation,  and  the  rustic  bridge,  and  the  little  island  that 
seems  to  rest  there  for  companionship,  and — but,  bless  me ! 
here  I  am  on  the  third  page  of  my  letter ;  the  burden  of  it 
all  is,  my  dearest  Miss  Mitford,  that  wherever  we  were  we 
thought  and  talked  of  you.  Miss  M.,  after  wandering  through 
our  Southern  and  Western  States,  proceeded  on  her  way  to 
Boston.  She  promises  to  go  to  see  you,  and  tell  you  all 
about  us.  We  do  not  know  whether  to  be  most  grieved  or 
grateful  that  she  whom  we  expected  only  to  admire  should 
make  us  all  love  her,  the  pang  of  separation  comes  so  close 
upon  the  birth  of  affection  !  I  have  not  yet  parted  from 
her;  we  are  to  go  to  the  [torti]  Hills  together  in  September, 
and  I  shall  see  the  last  of  her  in  New  York. 

Our  little  community  have  been  delighting  themselves 
with  your  "  Belford  Regis ;"  accept  their  united  thanks  for 
it.  Is  it  not  good  now  and  then  during  a  public  career  to 
get  genuine  individual  gratitude  ?  The  book  is  republished 
rather  shabbily  by  Carey.  I  am  in  great  hopes  that  we 
shall  get  our  ungracious  laws  altered  at  the  next  congres- 
sional session,  so  that  you  English  contributors  to  our  ad- 
vantage shall  get  some  remuneration  for  your  pains.  I  have 
a  new  novel,  "The  Linwoods,"  waiting  till  some  portion  of 
our  novel-reading  public  return  to  their  city  homes,  to  be 
published.  I  have  given  directions  for  a  copy  to  be  sent 
you.  It  has  at  least  two  good  lines  in  it — good  beyond  all 
question — the  motto,  which  is  from  your  beautiful  "  Rienzi." 
By  the  way,  I  had  the  pleasure  last  winter  of  reading  the 
very  copy  you  gave  Miss  Phillips,  and  by  the  way,  too,  it  is 
said  that  this  young  lady,  with  whom  I  have  no  personal 
acquaintance,  is  about  to  marry  one  of  our  rich  merchants. 

We  are  to  have  a  visit  from  the  Butlers  shortly.  You 
have  seen  her  journal,  and  your  opinion  is  more  favorable 


2o8  N.  P.  Willis. 

than  that  of  her  English  reviewers,  is  it  not  ?  Its  faults  are 
juvenilities,  and  the  consequences  of  unfavorable  circum- 
stances; but  are  there  not  unquestionable  evidences  of  a 
most  extraordinary  mind  and  a  noble  spirit?  There  should 
be,  for  she  possesses  them.  Do  not  believe  any  of  the  gos- 
sip they  print  about  her. 

Your  friend  Theodore  is  here,  and  is  to  be  married  within 
a  month;  we  are  just  in  the  midst  of  bridal  festivities,  which 
Miss  M.  stayed  to  help  us  enjoy.  A  pretty  little  niece  of 
mine  was  tied  on  Tuesday  evening  to  a  youth  towards  seven 
feet  high ;  but  this  is  the  only  disparity  between  them,  and 
disparities  that  can  be  measured  are  not  formidable.  Kate 
gave  me  a  long  message  to  you,  which  I  have  neither  room 
nor  time  for.  Will  you  offer  my  best  wishes  to  your  father, 
and  believe  me  truly  yours,  E.  M.  Sedgwick. 

N.  P.  Willis  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Manor  House,  Lee,  Sunday,  Aug.  lo,  1835. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Though,  as  I  have  said  before, 
I  am  principled  against  inveigling  better-employed  pens  into 
correspondence,  I  have  been  longer  in  answering  your  last 
most  delightful  letter  even  than  "  good  resolution  "  should 
exact.  I  have  been  led  on  from  week  to  week,  however,  by 
the  hope  of  fixing  on  a  day  to  advise  you  of  a  flit  from  Lon- 
don and  a  visit  to  Reading,  but  though  others  have  made 
pilgrimages  to  Our  Village  {vide  Athenceum),  my  scollop-shell 
still  hangs  on  the  wall.  I  have  just  now  decided,  to  the 
prejudice  of  a  proposed  trip  up  the  Rhine,  to  pass  a  week 
or  two  with  Sir  Charles  Throckmorton  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  one  very  great  in- 
ducement was  the  en  passant  of  Reading;  I  do  not  know 
exactly  when,  but  somewhere  about  the  first  week  in  Sep- 
tember I  shall  be  on  the  way,  and  I  will  write  to  you  a  few 
days  previous,  and  take  tea  with  you  in  passing.  I  had  a 
letter  from  America  the  other  day,  wondering  how  I  could 
possibly  have  been  a  year  in  England  without  a  visit  to  Our 
Village.  It  is  for  the  same  reason,  I  suppose,  that  people 
pass  their  lives  within  the  sound  of  Niagara  and  never  see 
it.     Your  last  book  still  rolls  on,  gathering  golden  opinions, 


English  Scenery.  209 

and  I,  for  one,  thank  you,  for  I  have  been  passing  the  last 
fortnight  in  the  country,  and  perhaps  there  is  no  book  in 
the  world  so  pleasant  to  be  on  the  grass  with  and  read  to  a 
charming  woman.  I  have  only  grudged  the  transfer  of 
leaves  from  my  right  hand  to  my  left,  and  if  you  had  heard 
the  "/$•  that  allV  of  my  listener  as  I  closed  the  last  volume, 
you  would  have  felt  that  you  had  not  lived  in  vain — as  who 
has,  who  has  given  pleasure  to  the  world,  or  beguiled  weari- 
ness, or  refined  the  aspect  of  life  ?  I  have  been  always  in 
the  neighborhood  of  London,  but  I  have  never  enjoyed  life 
so  keenly  as  in  the  variety  of  excursions  we  have  made 
within  the  last  month.  What  a  treasure  of  beauty  England 
is !  What,  in  other  lands,  is  comparable  to  Knowle  Park, 
Bromley  Hill  (Lord  Farnborough's),  North  Cray,  and  a 
dozen  more  of  these  enchanting  paradises  ?  To  me  there 
is  no  happier  day  than  one  passed  in  loitering  over  the 
grounds  of  a  superb  English  park.  If  I  was  married,  or 
had  any  "sweet  spirit  for  my  minister,"  I  would  spend  all 
my  summers  thus.  There  is  no  travel  on  the  Continent 
that  is  comparable  to  it  for  enjoyment,  and  objects  worthy 
of  attention.  I  have  nearly  made  up  my  mind  to  remain  in 
England  till  the  spring,  having  become  rather  a  sunflower 
in  the  five  years'  wanderings  in  softer  climates,  and  dread- 
ing an  American  winter. 

With  my  best  respects  to  your  father,  believe  me,  my  dear 
Miss  Mitford  (in  the  hope  of  soon  seeing  you), 

Yours  most  faithfully,  N.  P.  Willis. 

Mr.  W.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Nottingham,  Sept.  10,  1835. 
Dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  am  very  glad  that  the  paper  in 
the  AthencEum.  pleased  you.  Had  I  seen  more  of  your  pleas- 
ant neighborhood  and  people  it  should  have  been  much 
better.  My  peep  at  you  was  so  slight  that  I  could  only 
hope  you  would  pardon  the  great  blunders  and  the  greater 
omissions  it  must  contain  for  the  simple  intention.  There 
are  various  errors  of  the  press,  which  make,  as  usual,  plenty 
of  nonsense,  such  as  making  your  noble  bay-tree  simple  in- 
stead of  ample.     All  the  nonsense  pray  lay  to  the  charge 


2 1  o  Cricket-match. 

of  the  printer's  imp.  I  was  tied  up,  too,  about  "  Belford 
Regis  " — the  Athcnceum  having  given  two  notices  of  it.  I 
felt  a  delicacy  in  making  more  than  a  passing  paragraph  of 
it,  for  those  critics,  the  very  best  of  them,  are,  as  we  people 
here  say,  "  sore  chaps."  Well,  I  am  glad  it  pleased  you 
and  your  dear  father — that  is  all  the  pay  I  want  for  it;  and 
some  other  time  I  shall  hope  to  be  earlier  in  the  field  for 
you,  when  I  can  have  fair  play. 

Well,  what  do  you  think  of  our  Nottingham  men  now  !  I 
shall  send  you  a  paper  to-morrow  containing  the  account  of 
the  great  cricket- match  played  here  between  Sussex  and 
Nottingham.  Perhaps  you  may  have  seen  in  the  papers 
that  the  Nottingham  club  challenged  the  Sussex,  and  beat 
them  about  a  fortnight  ago  at  Brighton,  and  now  they  have 
beaten  them  again  here.  The  match  commenced  on  Mon- 
day, and  was  finished  yesterday  (Wednesday)  at  about  half- 
past  four  o'clock.  We  wished  you  had  been  there — a  more 
animated  sight  of  the  kind  you  never  saw.  On  Sunday 
morning,  as  we  were  dressing,  we  saw  a  crowd  going  up 
the  street,  and  immediately  perceived  that  in  the  centre  of 
it  were  the  Sussex  cricketers,  arrived  by  the  London  coach, 
and  going  to  the  inn  kept  by  one  of  our  Nottingham  crick- 
eters. They  looked  exceedingly  interesting,  I  assure  you, 
being  a  set  of  very  fine  fellows,  in  their  white  hats,  and 
with  all  their  trunks,  carpet-bags,  and  cloaks,  coming,  as 
we  verily  believed,  to  be  beaten.  Our  interest  was  strongly 
excited,  and  on  Monday  morning  we  set  off  to  the  cricket- 
ground,  which  lies  about  a  mile  from  the  town,  in  the  For- 
est, as  it  is  still  called,  though  not  a  tree  is  left  upon  it — a 
long,  furzy  common,  crowned  at  the  top  with  about  twenty 
windmills,  and  descending  in  a  steep  slope  to  a  fine  level 
— round  which  the  race-course  runs,  and  within  the  race- 
course lies  the  cricket-ground,  and  the  military  ground  for 
the  troop  of  horse  which  always  occupy  our  barracks.  Each 
end  of  the  cricket  -  ground  was  completely  enclosed  by 
booths,  and  all  up  the  forest  hill  were  scattered  booths  and 
tents  with  flags  flying,  fires  blazing,  pots  boiling,  ale-barrels 
standing,  and  carts  and  asses  and  people  bringing  still  more 
good  things,  ranged  at  the  farther  side  of  the  cricket-ground. 


C  ricket-match.  2 1 1 

I  had  the  strongest  idea  of  an  amphitheatre  filled  with  peo- 
ple that  I  ever  had.  In  fact,  it  was  an  amphitheatre.  Along 
each  side  of  the  ground  ran  a  bank  sloping  down  to  it;  and 
it  and  the  tents  and  booths  at  the  end  were  occupied  with 
a  dense  mass  of  people,  and  all  up  the  hill  were  groups,  and 
on  the  race-stand  an  eager,  forward-leaning  mass.  There 
were  said  to  be  twenty  thousand  people,  all  as  silent  as  the 
ground  beneath  them,  except  when  some  exploit  of  the 
players  produced  a  sudden  thunder  of  applause.  The  play- 
ing was  beautiful.  Mr.  Ward,  the  late  M.P.  for  the  City  of 
London,  came  from  the  Isle  of  Wight  to  see  the  play,  and 
declared  himself  highly  delighted.  But  nothing  was  so 
beautiful  as  the  sudden  shout  and  rush  of  the  crowd  when 
the  last  decisive  notch  was  gained;  to  see  the  scorers  sud- 
denly snatch  up  their  chairs,  and  run  off  with  them  towards 
the  players'  tent ;  to  see  the  bat  of  Bart  Goode,  the  batsman 
on  whom  the  fate  of  the  game  depended,  spinning  up  in  the 
air,  where  he  had  sent  it  in  the  ecstasy  of  the  moment ;  and 
the  crowd,  that  the  instant  before  were  as  fixed  and  as  si- 
lent as  the  earth  itself,  spread  all  over  the  green  space, 
where  the  white  figures  of  the  players  had  till  then  been  so 
gravely  and,  apparently,  coolly  contending — speeding  with 
a  murmur  as  of  a  sea,  and  over  their  heads,  amid  all  the 
deafening  clamor  and  confusion,  the  carrier-pigeon,  with  the 
red  ribbon  tied  to  its  tail,  the  signal  of  loss  or  gain — I  know 
not  which — beating  round  and  round,  so  as  to  ascertain  its 
precise  situation,  and  then  flying  off  to  bear  the  tidings  to 
some  strongly  interested  quarter.  Was  it  not  a  beautiful 
sight?     Should  you  not  have  been  delighted  to  see  it? 

My  thoughts  on  such  occasions  generally  fly  beyond  the 
immediate  place  and  time,  and  begin  to  contemplate  con- 
sequences, and  I  could  not  help  seeing  what  a  wide  differ- 
ence twenty  years  has  produced  in  the  character  of  the 
English  population.  What  a  contrast  is  this  play  to  bull- 
baiting,  dog  and  cock  fightings!  So  orderly,  so  manly,  so 
generous  in  its  character.  It  is  the  nearest  approach  to  the 
athletic  games  of  the  Greeks  that  we  have  made,  and  the 
effect  on  the  general  mass  of  the  people  by  the  emulation 
it  will  excite  must  be  excellent.     There  is  something  very 


212  An  Engagement. 

beautiful  in  one  distant  county  sending  its  peaceful  cham- 
pions to  contend  with  those  of  another  in  a  sport  that  has 
no  drawback  of  cruelty  or  vulgarity  in  it,  but  has  every  rec- 
ommendation of  skill,  taste,  health,  and  generous  rivalry. 
You,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  have  done  a  great  deal  to  promote 
this  better  spirit,  and  you  could  not  have  done  more  had 
you  been  haranguing  Parliament,  and  bringing  in  bills  for 
the  purpose. 

Mary  sends  her  love,  and  wishes  you  could  have  given  us 
the  private  history  of  all  the  players,  their  loves,  their  wives, 
and  their  particular  characters  and  achievements.  As  Bart 
Goode  threw  up  his  bat,  "  There,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  hope 
his  sweetheart  or  his  wife  sees  it !"  One  fact  you  should 
know,  for  I  have  not  got  the  newspaper  yet,  and  don't  know 
that  it  will  be  there.  A  Sussex  batsman — Taylor,  I  believe 
— sent  the  ball  straight  through  a  tent  at  the  end  of  the 
ground,  cutting  through  the  canvas  on  each  side  as  clean 
as  a  cannon-shot,  and  smashing  six  bottles  of  porter  in  its 
passage.    With  kind  regards  to  Dr.  Mitford, 

Yours  very  truly,  W.  Howitt. 

Mr.  Willis  to  Miss  Mitford. 

London,  Sept.  22,  1835. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — You  will  think  me  the  most 
perfidious  of  men,  for  I  have  all  but  passed  your  door  on  a 
visit  to  Warwickshire,  and  date,  as  you  see,  once  more  from 
London.  Having  confessed  my  sin,  extenuation  is  the  next 
step.  I  was  later  than  I  had  promised  myself,  and  was  ex- 
pected by  Sir  Charles  Throckmorton  to  join  Miss  Porter  in 
a  tour  to  Kenilworth,  Warwick,  Stratford-upon-Avon,  etc., 
etc.  Miss  Porter  has  expressed  the  strongest  wish  to  know 
you,  and  I  had  concocted  a  delightful  dream  of  bringing 
her  down  to  Reading  and  taking  up  our  abode  at  the  near- 
est inn  for  a  week  on  my  return  from  Coughton  Court. 
This  would  have  been  agreeable  to  all  parties ;  but,  unluck- 
ily, I  went  to  a  picnic  just  before  starting,  fell  in  love  with  a 
blue-eyed  girl,  and  (after  running  the  gauntlet  successfully 
through  France,  Italy,  Greece,  Germany,  Asia  Minor,  Turkey, 
etc.,  etc.)  I  renewed  my  youth,  and  became  "a  suitor  for 


Wedding  Tojir.  213 

love."  I  am  to  be  married  (sequitur)  on  Thursday  week. 
Do  you  excuse  me  for  not  coming  to  see  you?  I  brought 
Miss  Porter  back,  but  it  was  to  chaperon  me  to  my  wed- 
ding. 

The  lady  who  is  to  take  me,  as  the  Irish  say,  "in  a  pres- 
ent," is  some  six  years  younger  than  myself,  gentle,  religious, 
relying,  and  unambitious.  She  has  never  been  whirled 
through  the  gay  society  of  London,  so  is  not  giddy  or  vain. 
She  has  never  swum  in  a  gondola  or  written  a  sonnet,  so 
has  a  proper  respect  for  those  who  have.  She  is  called 
pretty,  but  is  more  than  that  in  my  eyes;  sings  as  if  her 
heart  were  hid  in  her  lips,  and  loves  me.  Voi/d,,  my  pro- 
gramme in  little.  When  you  come  to  London,  or  when  we 
(how  delightful  to  write  in  the  plural  now  !) — when  we  come 
to  Reading,  I  am  bent  on  your  liking  her.  She  already  (as 
who  does  not  that  reads.'')  loves  you. 

We  are  bound  to  Paris  for  a  month  (because  I  think  amuse- 
ment better  than  reflection  when  a  woman  makes  a  doubt- 
ful bargain),  and  by  November  we  return  to  London  and  its 
neighborhood  for  the  winter,  and  in  the  spring  sail  for  Amer- 
ica to  see  my  mother.  I  have  promised  to  live  mainly  on 
this  side  of  the  water,  and  shall  return  in  the  course  of  a 
year  to  try  what  contentment  may  be  sown  and  reaped  in  a 
green  lane  in  Kent.  Will  you  come  and  live  with  us  now 
and  then  ? 

What  a  charming  book  dear  Miss  Sedgwick  has  given 
us ! 

Direct  to  me  in  London  still,  and  believe  me,  dear  Miss 
Mitford,  Ever  most  faithfully  yours, 

N.  P.  Willis. 

The  following  is  a  copy  of  some  lines  among  Miss  Mit- 
ford's  papers,  which  may  possibly  have  been  written  by  Jane 
Porter : 

Past  is  Past. 

Disinter  no  dead  delight, 

Bring  no  past  to  life  again  ; 
Those  red  cheeks  with  woe  are  white, 

Those  ripe  lips  are  pale  with  pain. 


214  Daniel  Webster. 

Vex  not  then  the  buried  bliss 

(Changed  to  more  divine  regret), 
Sweet  thoughts  come  from  where  it  lies, 

Underneath  the  violet. 

This  was  suggested  by  the  circumstance  of  our  endeavoring  to  revive 
an  old  amusement  in  the  absence  (by  death)  of  one  of  our  blithest  com- 
panions— the  saddest  attempt  at  happiness  I  ever  made.  J.  P. 

George  Ticknor  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Clarendon  Hotel,  Bond  Street,  Oct.  15, 1835. 

Dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  received  from  our  poor  friend 
Kenyon,  two  days  ago,  when  we  reached  London,  your  kind 
note  and  the  copy  of  Sergeant  Talfourd's  "  Ion  "  that  accom- 
panied it.     Many  thanks  for  both  of  them. 

I  send  you  with  this  all  Dr.  Channing's  works,  and  the 
little  series  of  four  small  volumes  in  which  Miss  Sedgwick's 
"  Home"  is  to  be  found,  and  I  send  them  very  gladly,  both 
because  I  think  them  good  and  because  the  last  of  them, 
"  Gleams  of  Truth,"  is  a  practical  illustration  of  the  princi- 
ples touching  the  relations  of  the  more  favored  and  less  fa- 
vored classes  of  society,  which  are  so  ably  and  so  beautifully 
set  forth  in  the  separate  sermon  of  Dr.  Channing  which  I 
send  with  them. 

In  the  matter  of  Mr.  Webster,  I  am  not  so  fortunate.  I 
wanted  very  much  to  find  two  or  three  of  his  public  ad- 
dresses and  two  or  three  of  his  greater  speeches  on  broad 
constitutional  questions,  that  you  might  have  judged  what  is 
the  grasp  of  his  mind.  But  both  the  booksellers  and  my 
private  friends  have  failed  me.  I  shall  still  search,  and,  if  I 
am  successful,  I  shall  send  you  the  pamphlets,  or  any  of 
them  I  may  find.  But  I  am  somewhat  mortified  to  be 
obliged  to  say  that  I  fear  I  shall  not  succeed. 

It  is  not  possible  within  the  compass  of  a  note,  or  even 
within  the  compass  of  many  sheets  of  paper,  to  give  you  the 
idea  I  should  be  gla4  to  present  of  the  growth  of  Mr.  Web- 
ster's mind  and  character.  It  requires  detail,  and  would 
then  read  like  a  romance.  But  the  general  facts  are  that 
his  father  had  been  an  officer  in  the  war  of  1756-63  against 
the  French  in  America,  and,  after  it  was  over,  went  to  the 
very  frontier  of  civilization,  and,  plunging  into  the  forest. 


George  Ticknor.  215 

established  himself  and  his  household  goods.  There  Mr. 
Webster  was  born.  Schools  there  were  none  at  first,  and 
those  to  which  he  had  access  afterwards  were  humble  and 
poor  enough.  But  he  began  to  rise  from  the  first,  and, 
though  his  father  was  always  too  poor  to  give  him  any  sub- 
stantial help,  he  continued  to  rise  through  all  obstacles,  and 
made  his  way  to  college,  helped  an  elder  brother  to  come 
there,  and  has,  in  short,  by  the  mere  effort  of  his  own  mind 
and  character,  raised  himself  to  the  place  he  now  occupies 
in  the  regard  of  his  countrymen.  It  has  been  a  beautiful 
and  a  consistent  course  throughout,  and,  though  I  would 
gladly  see  him  President  of  the  United  States,  I  do  not 
think  that  the  office  would  add  anything  to  the  reputation 
he  enjoys  with  the  wisest  portion  of  our  society. 

But  I  am  talking  too  much.  Your  kindness,  of  which  I 
have  already  so  many  proofs,  must  excuse  me.  Please  to 
give  our  best  respects  to  your  father,  and  accept  Mrs.  T.'s 
very  sincere  regards,  and  my  own  and  my  daughter's  best 
acknowledgments.  Yours  very  faithfully, 

Geo.  Ticknor. 

P.S. — We  shall  none  of  us  ever  forget  the  truly  delightful 
evening  we  spent  in  your  cottage  at  "Our  Village." 

This  Mr.  Ticknor  was  the  celebrated  author  of  "The  His- 
tory of  Spanish  Literature,"*  and  he  had  paid  Miss  Mitford 
a  visit  on  the  26th  of  July.  She  writes  :  "An  American  of 
the  highest  class  and  the  highest  talent,  a  charming  person, 
Mr.  Ticknor  of  Boston,  visited  me  the  other  day,  on  his  way 
to  Dublin  to  see  Miss  Edgeworth."  Mr.  Ticknor  in  his 
diary  records  this  visit : 

"We  found  Miss  Mitford  living  literally  in  a  cottage  nei- 
ther omee  nor  poetical,  except  inasmuch  as  it  had  a  small 
garden  crowded  with  the  richest  and  most  beautiful  profu- 
sion of  flowers.  She  has  the  simplest  and  kindest  manners, 
and  entertained  us  for  two  hours  with  the  most  animated 


*  Miss  Mitford  says  that  Macaulay  admired  it  so  much  that  he  recom- 
mended the  Queen  to  read  it. 


2i6  Sergeant  Talfourd. 

conversation,  and  a  great  variety  of  anecdote,  without  any 
of  the  pretensions  of  an  author  by  profession,  and  without 
any  of  the  stiffness  that  generally  belongs  to  single  ladies 
of  her  age  and  reputation." 

Mrs.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Nov.  1 6, 1835. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Thank  you  indeed  for  the  gift 
of"  Ion ;"  the  tragedy  was  known  to  us  by  extracts,  and  our 
desire  to  see  it  was  great.  We  like  it  very  much — it  is  a 
noble  descendant  of  the  noble  Greek  tragedy.  I  am  sure 
your  friend  is  a  right-hearted,  high-minded,  and  most  richly 
gifted  person — you  are  happy  in  such  a  friend.  I  cannot 
believe  it  possible  that,  after  the  publication  of  this,  and  the 
cordial  manner  of  its  reception,  its  author  will  content  him- 
self with  this  one  proof  of  his  talent  for  dramatic  writing,  a 
rare  gift  and  a  glorious  one,  and  one  in  which  he  will  excel. 
You  will  smile  at  me,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  but  I  must  tell  you 
that  I  rejoice  at  his  being  a  married  man.  It  is  a  blessed 
thing  for  a  wife  to  have  to  sympathize  and  glorify  herself  in 
the  honor  of  her  husband.  From  the  first  poet  in  the  land 
down  to  the  successful  cricketer,  my  feeling  always  is,  what 
a  proud  and  happy  woman  must  his  wife  be  !  I  never  care 
to  be  undeceived,  and  told  such  and  such  a  great  man  has  a 
wife  unworthy  of  him  ;  to  my  feeling  it  is  impossible.  There 
always  is  a  heart  that  rejoices  over  the  success  and  honor 
of  the  gifted,  and  to  my  mind  it  must  be  a  wife;  therefore  it 
is  that  I  think  Mrs.  Talfourd  must  be  a  happy  woman. 

And  is  it  your  tragedy  that  is  to  occupy  you  this  winter? 
or  do  you  begin  your  great  story  of  English  life  ?  Success 
to  you,  whatever  it  may  be !  I  am  taking  mine  ease  after 
my  summer  labors,  walking  out  every  day,  and  enjoying  the 
fresh  air  and  the  autumnal  landscape  as  much  as  possible. 
It  is  beautiful,  and  as  I  go  along  among  fallen  and  falling 
leaves,  and  get  glimpses  of  old  halls,  with  their  goodly  roofs 
and  old  gray  stateliness  about  them,  such  gushes  of  poetry 
come  over  me,  and  I  long  so  earnestly  to  have  written  or  to 
write  something  which  might  bring  livingly  to  the  reader 
such  ruins  and  such  friends.     Oh,  my  friend,  if  one  could 


Robert  Nicholls's  Poems.  2 1 7 

but  embody  one's  own  feelings! — but  you  can  do  so  in  great 
measure.  Look  at  all  your  different  country  rambles,  at  the 
scenery  you  describe  in  every  tale  you  write,  at  the  noble 
sentiment  and  natural  feeling  which  you  scatter  over  every 
page — you  have  done  so,  and  you  will  do  so  yet  more.  I 
hope,  if  you  are  writing  prose,  you  will  allow  yourself  space 
enough  for  the  working  out  of  a  longer  story  than  you  have 
ever  yet  written.     I  am  sure  you  would  succeed. 

Have  you  seen  Robert  Nicholls's  poems  ?  If  you  are  a 
reader  of  Taifs  Magazine,  you  will  see  the  review  of  them ; 
that  is  a  right  manly  and  sterling  volume  of  poetry,  full  of 
life,  humor,  and  the  noblest  elements  of  poetry.  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  such  poems  as  "  Arouse  the  Soul,"  "  I  Dare  Not 
Scorn,"  and  others,  such  of  which  this  volume  has  many, 
affect  me.  It  is  such  writing  as  this  which  makes  one  feel 
that  talent  is  nobler  than  birth,  and  high-mindedness  of 
more  worth  than  gold. 

William  unites  with  me  in  every  kind  sentiment  towards 
both  you  and  your  father.     I  am,  dear  Miss  Mitford, 
Yours,  affectionately  and  gratefully, 

M.  HOWITT. 
10 


2i8  Lady  Dacre. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
Letters  from  Lady  Dacre,  Mrs.  Howitt,  and  Miss  Sedgwick. 

Lady  Dacre  was  a  cousin  of  Miss  Mitford.  Both  she  and 
her  lord  had  great  appreciation  of  literature,  and  collected 
around  them  a  circle  of  authors  and  other  celebrities.  In 
this  year,  1836,  Miss  Mitford  mentions  her  having  dined  at 
Lord  Dacre's,  and  met  Joanna  Baillie,  Mr.  Harness,  Bobus 
Smith,  and  Young  the  actor.  She  was  first  personally  intro- 
duced to  Joanna  Baillie  in  Lady  Dacre's  drawing-room, 
"where  poets  most  do  congregate."  Lady  Dacre  herself 
wrote  some  plays  and  short  poems  ;*  she  sketched  admira- 
bly, and  was  a  perfect  Italian  scholar,  a  friend  of  Ugo  Fos- 
colo.  She  was  remarkably  handsome,^retaining  her  beauty 
even  in  old  age.  Miss  Mitford  speaks  of  her  charm  of 
manner  and  magnificent  figure,  and  adds  that  she  was  one 
of  the  best  horsewomen  and  "whips"  in  England. 

The  following  is  interesting  as  being  the  first  letter  writ- 
ten by  Lady  Dacre  to  Miss  Mitford,  and  showing  the  origin 
of  their  friendship : 

Lady  Dacre  to  Miss  Mitford. 

The  Hoo,  Friday,  Jan.  r,  1836. 
Lady  Dacre  presents  her  compliments  to  Miss  Mitford, 
and  (encouraged  by  Mr.  Talbot)  ventures  to  have  recourse 
to  her  in  her  extremity.  Lady  D.  has  in  vain  tried  to  pro- 
cure Mr.  Talfourd's  "  Ion  "  from  the  London  booksellers. 
She  therefore  petitions  Miss  Mitford  to  have  the  goodness 
to  make  interest  with  the  author  to  procure  her  the  reading 
of  the  work,  of  which  she  has  heard  such  praise.  Lady  D. 
begs  to  add  her  congratulations  to  Miss  Mitford,  the  public, 
and  herself,  that  Miss  Mitford  should  again  be  induced  to 
write  tragedy — to  Miss  M.  herself,  because  there  is  no  pleas- 

*  One  of  which  appeared  in  "The  Keepsake"  for  1837. 


"  Our  Village''  219 

ure  equal  to  it,  even  to  those  who  do  it  ill ;  what  then  must 
it  be  to  Miss  M.,  whose  dramatic  blank  verse  is  so  incom- 
parable ? 

Lady  D.  hopes  Miss  Mitford  is  pleased  with  her  beloved, 
honored,  and  admired  friend  Joanna's  new  publication.  Lady 
D.  is  delighted  with  many  of  the  dramas,  the  serious  ones; 
she  does  not  think  her  friend  equally  strong  in  comedy. 

If  Lady  D.  is  taking  a  great  liberty  with  Miss  Mitford,  her 
sister  and  Mr.  Talbot  must  bear  the  blame. 

Mrs.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Nottingham,  Feb.  4,  1836. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — This  new  edition  of  "Our 
Village"  I  have  been  coveting  ever  since  I  saw  the  adver- 
tisement of  it,  and  I  will  tell  you  why.  It  is  one  of  those 
cheerful,  spirited  works,  full  of  fair  pictures  of  humanity, 
which,  especially  where  there  are  children  who  love  reading 
and  being  read  to,  becomes  a  household  book,  turned  to  again 
and  again,  and  remembered  and  talked  of  with  affection.  So 
it  is  by  our  fireside ;  it  is  a  work  our  little  daughter  has  read, 
and  loves  to  read,  and  which  our  litde  son  Alfred,  a  most 
indomitable  young  gentleman,  likes  especially — not  so  much 
for  its  variety  of  character,  which  gives  its  charm  to  his  sis- 
ter's mind,  but  for  its  descriptions  of  the  country.  Every- 
thing belonging  to  the  country  is  delicious  in  his  eyes,  and 
to  his  soul.  He  is  as  yet  a  bad  reader,  and  therefore  he  is 
read  to;  and  his  cry  is,  "Read  me  the  Copse !"  or  "Read  me 
the  Nutting,  or  a  Ramble  into  the  Country ! "  Such,  dear  Miss 
Mitford,  being  the  case,  when  I  saw  the  new  edition  adver- 
tised, I  began  to  cast  in  my  mind  whether  or  not  we  could 
not  buy  it,  for  perhaps  you  know  that  literary  people,  though 
makers  of  books,  are  not  extensive  buyers  thereof.  You  may 
think,  then,  what  was  my  delight — and  the  delight  of  us  all — 
when  a  parcel  came  in,  the  string  was  cut,  and  behold  it 
contained  no  other  than  those  long-coveted  and  favorite  vol- 
umes !  Thank  you,  therefore,  dearest  Miss  Mitford ;  you 
have  conferred  a  benefit  upon  our  fireside  which  will  make 
you  even  more  beloved  than  formerly,  for  now  we  shall  al- 
ways have  you  at  hand.    It  is  a  pity  that  the  volumes  do  not 


220  Civic  Dignities, 

contain  the  whole  of  the  five  former.  It  is  a  pity  also  that 
the  wood-cuts  are  not  more  worthy  of  their  subjects.  With 
these  drawbacks,  the  volumes  are  extremely  neatly  got  up, 
nicely  and  firmly  bound,  and  that  is  something,  when  books 
in  general  are  rather  made  for  show  than  use.  You  are  a 
fortunate  woman  to  have  a  second  or  third  edition,  but  not 
more  fortunate  than  you  deserve.  Again  let  me  thank  you 
in  the  name  of  us  all. 

You  ask  me  how  does  your  friend  like  his  aldermanic 
dignities.*  Dignities  there  are  none,  not  even  a  scarlet 
cloak,  which,  by  the  way,  I  am  sure  he  would  never  have 
worn ;  the  title  we  neither  of  us  liked,  but  he  was  compelled 
into  the  office  against  his  will,  and  now  he  is  in  he  likes  it 
not,  because  so  much  time  is  of  necessity  occupied,  and  it  is 
so  hard  a  warfare  which  he  has  to  do,  not  against  the  Tories, 
but  against  the  Whigs  and  even  those  who  call  themselves 
Radicals.  I  assure  you  I  have  seen  more  of  men's  selfish- 
ness and  manoeuvring  since  William  has  been  one  of  the 
Corporation  than  I  had  any  idea  of.  Verily,  common  human 
nature  is  a  very  common  thing  indeed j  and  these  men  stare 
and  storm  at  him  and  dislike  him  worse  by  half  than  their 
most  violent  political  enemies,  because  he  will  make  them 
do  right.  We  had  need  of  your  pleasant  volumes  to  give 
one  sunny  pictures  of  poor  human  nature,  after  all  the  mean- 
ness and  pettiness  which  it  shows  among  the  reformers  of 
this  reformed  Corporation. 

I  have  read  Bulwer's  "Rienzi,"  and  yours  also.  I  always 
thought  your  tragedy  the  best  of  5'Our  works,  and  I  think  so 
still.  It  is  a  glorious  thing.  I  like  Bulwer's  too,  very  much, 
but  unless  there  were  historical  ground  for  the  love  between 
a  Colonna  and  the  family  of  Rienzi,  he  has  injured  his  work 
by  its  introduction.  It  is  so  palpably  an  imitation  of  the 
tragedy,  and  with  much  less  effect.  Adrian  Colonna  and 
Irene  in  the  novel  destroy  the  unity  and  continuity  of  the 
story — coming  in  and  going  out,  and  playing  at  a  sort  of 
bo-peep  with  one  another.  That  is  the  weak  part  of  the 
story.     The  loves  of  Nina  and  Rienzi  were  enough  for  a 

*  Mr.  Howitt  was  an  alderman  of  Nottingham. 


Joanna  Baillic.  221 

stern,  grave  story  like  that;  and  their  love  and  their  char- 
acters are  beautiful.  To  you,  however,  the  originality  be- 
longs. Had  you  not  written  this  tragedy,  I  question  if  this 
novel  would  have  been  written  either.  One  thing,  however,  I 
see  in  it  with  pleasure,  so  much  less  of  "dandyism  "  and  of  that 
knowing,  worldly  spirit  which  were  the  deformity  of  his  Pel- 
ham  novels.     His  mind  is  evidently  graver,  older,  and  wiser. 

Joanna  Baillie  is,  as  you  say,  "  a  glorious  old  lady."  She 
has  a  glorious  mind.  It  is  impossible  for  you  to  admire  her 
more  than  I  do;  but  one  thing  I  must  remark,  you  will  see 
now  the  whole  world  of  criticism  exalt  her  to  the  skies,  and 
not  on  the  strength  of  her  own  noble  intellect,  but  at  the 
expense  of  every  other  woman  who  has  written  tragedy.  It 
is  the  fashion  of  modern  criticism :  the  idol  of  the  day  must 
be  the  head  of  a  pyramid,  erected  on  other  men's  fame. 
We  shall  have  it  in  the  quarterlies,  and  so  echoed  down  to 
the  commonest  provincial  papers.  I  saw  it  in  Black- 
wood's this  present  month,  and  with  indignation  too.  I 
never  deny  the  wonderful  excellence  of  Joanna- Baillie,  but 
no  one  shall  persuade  me  that  "  Rienzi "  is  not  as  good  as 
any  drama  by  her.  Do  not  be  discouraged,  dear  Miss  Mit- 
ford.  I  know  how  mortifying  these  invidious  comparisons 
are,  but  everything  will  find  its  level,  and  thinking  people 
will  contradict  by  their  own  firesides  these  unjust  and  in- 
vidious comparisons. 

I  am  glad  that  you  like  our  friend — at  least  by  his  letters. 
You  will  like  him  yet  more  when  you  come  to  know  him. 
For  my  part,  I  like  him  greatly;  and, different  as  our  tastes 
are  in  many  particulars,  there  is  so  accordant  and  kindred  a 
tone  of  spirit  that  we  never  meet  without  his  awakening  a 
literary  inspiration.  He  does  not  suggest  in  words  subjects, 
but  he  gives  a  state  of  mind  to  suggest  them.  You  will 
like  him  too ;  so  did  Mrs.  Hemans,  for  he,  though  young, 
was  a  most  judicious  friend  and  counsellor. 

And  now  good-bye,  dear  Miss  Mitford.     Here  is  indeed 
a  long  scrawl  for  you.     Give  our  cordial  greeting  to  your 
father,  and  with  love  from  my  husband  and  Ann, 
I  am  yours,  truly  and  affectionately, 

M.  HOWITT. 


222  Reviews. 

Mrs.  Howitt  introduced  Henry  Chorley,  to  whom  she  al- 
ludes in  the  above  letter,  to  Miss  Mitford,  thinking  that 
she  could  assist  him  with  letters  for  the  "  Life  of  Mrs.  He- 
raans,"  which  he  was  then  preparing. 

After  receiving  a  copy  of  the  "Linvvoods"  from  Miss 
Sedgwick,  Miss  Mitford  sent  her  a  critique  on  that  work,  to 
which  the  following  is  a  reply : 

.Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford, 

New  York,  March  9,  1836. 
Thank  you,  my  dear  friend,  for  the  kind  note  (with  "  Ion") 
and  the  letter  that  followed  it;  for  the  expressions  of  interest 
and  affection  with  which  they  abound.  They  are,  every  one 
of  them,  folded  and  laid  away  in  my  heart — the  right  and 
only  safe  keeper  of  such  archives.  I  was  very  much  pleased 
with  your  approbation  of  the  "Liliwoods."  Vanity  (or,  I 
would  fain  hope,  something  better)  gives  us  a  very  nice  per- 
ception and  discrimination  in  this  matter  of  praise.  We  soon 
get  above  caring  for  the  hack  reviewers,  but  in  so  far  as  they 
affect  the  sale  of  a  book.  They  must  review  after  a  writer 
reaches  a  certain  point  in  public  favor,  and  they  must  praise, 
but  they  dole  it  out  without  one  movement  of  the  heart,  as  a 
parish  officer  does  his  allowance  to  the  licensed  pauper.  If 
you  get  a  real  warm-hearted  review,  you  may  be  sure  it  comes 
from  some  youth  whose  feelings  are  gushing  out  from  a  full, 
undrained  fountain.  I  love  young  people,  and  because  they 
love  immeasurably.  But,  of  all  praise,  commend  me  to  that 
of  a  friend  who  feels  a  deep  interest  in  your  honor  and  suc- 
cess. If  you  know  the  coloring  is  deeper  than  you  deserve, 
yet  it  is  the  coloring  of  affection,  and  therefore  true  if  every- 
thing else  is  false.  Thank  you,  too,  for  your  criticisms — 
though  very  forbearing,  they  are  valuable  to  me.  I  have  heard 
Fanny  Butler  laugh  at  the  Americanism  "  as  he  used  to,"  but 
I  was  never  before  aware  that  "  mother,"  "  aunt,"  etc.,  without 
the  pronoun,  were  peculiar  to  us.  The  ear  soon  becomes 
accustomed  to  a  conventionalism  of  this  sort,  and  the  omis- 
sion is  positively  disagreeable.  Yet  we  must  write  according 
to  the  standard  of  our  own  land,  if  we  have  had  the  society 
of  no  other. 


''Ion."  223 

We  have  all  been  delighted  with  the  tragedy  of  your  friend. 
I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Butler  (with  your  kind  mention  of  her,  and 
notice  of  Mr.  Harness)  some  account  of  "  Ion,"  and  said  in 
conclusion  that  if  Dr.  Channing  could  write  a  tragedy,  it 
would  be  such  a  one  as  this.  She  says,  in  repl}',  "  I  am 
reading  with  delight  Channing's  book  on  slavery,  biit\\\?,  trag- 
edy (whenever  he  writes  it)  will  be  bad,  and  any  tragedy 
which  is  such  a  one  as  he  would  write  would,  in  my  audacious 
judgment,  be  bad."  I  anticipate  the  reversion  of  her  opinion 
when  she  reads  "  Ion."  The  only  fault  I  see  in  it  is  the 
fault  in  Scott's  "  Rebecca,"  the  virtue  is  given  to  another  faith 
and  another  race,  that  Christianity  alone  could  produce ;  the 
natural  offspring  of  Christianity  is  given  to  a  parentage  barren 
of  such  progeny.  But  this  is  a  slight  fault,  into  which  the 
most  generous  and  philosophic  mind  would  alone  fall.  How 
different  is  the  effect  of  such  a  poem  as  this  from  Byron's — 
quite  equal  to  his  in  vigor  and  beauty.  Talfourd  makes  you 
love  and  reverence  your  species.  Byron  would  make  you 
hate,  shun,  and  fear  them. 

My  brother  Robert  says  that  "  Ion  "  is  an  impersonation  of 
Jesus  Christ.  He  certainly  is  an  illustration  of  disinterest- 
edness, and  all  the  attributes  of  spirituality. 

Enter  Kate  from  her  Italian  lesson,  laughing  and  shouting, 
her  clean  frock  (that  was)  covered  with  mud — a  fit  illustration 
of  our  horrible  streets  at  this  moment.  She  has  measured 
her  length,  some  five  feet,  on  the  Broadway  pavement,  but 
nothing  ever  hurts  or  disconcerts  her.  I  wish  I  could  send 
you  her  picture.  She  is  a  perfect  Hebe — intelligence,  health, 
and  happiness  are  stamped  upon  her. 

"Those  young  people  are  English,"  said  a  talking  woman 
next  to  me  at  a  dancing-school  ball,  pointing  to  Kate  and  her 
brother  Charles,  who  has  also  the  rich  English  complexion. 

I  smiled. 

"  Oh,  they  are,"  said  she. 

"  I  believe  not,  ma'am." 

"  Do  you  know  them  ?" 

"  Yes." 

" They  must  be.     Are  you  quite  sure  they  are  not?" 

I  explained  their  relationship  to  me. 


224  Kate. 

"  Their  parents  are  English,  then  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  the  girl  has  been  brought  up  in  England — 
her  voice,  manner,  everything  is  English." 

I  hope  one  day,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  to  show  her  to 
you.  She  is  the  busiest  of  all  busy  bees,  and  working  hard 
at  the  accomplishments  this  winter — the  piano,  singing,  draw- 
ing, Italian,  and  German — but,  thank  heaven,  there  is  no  ex- 
punging nature  from  her. 

If  you  see  Fanny  Butler  in  England  (she  goes  there  the 
first  of  May),  ask  her  about  Kate,  please,  for  I  have  a  foolish 
desire  you  should  know  something  of  the  child  from  less 
questionable  authority  than  mine. 

What  an  extraordinary  acquaintance  you  have  among  the 
young  folk!  I  trust  that  little  Howitt's  productions  will  be 
published,  but,  as  you  say,  "children  are  wonderful  nowa- 
days." i  am  sometimes  tempted  to  exclaim,  "  Is  the  world 
all  grown  up  ? — is  childhood  dead  ?"  But  we  have  some  love- 
ly specimens  of  this  loveliest  portion  of  existence  under  our 
own  roof — the  youngest,  a  child  of  four  years,  the  drollest 
little  sprig  of  Calvinism,  who,  having  learned  the  terrors  of 
the  law  from  her  nurse,  threatens  us,  when  it  suits  her,  with 
"  the  wrath  to  come." 

Miss  Martineau  has  been  passing  the  winter  in  Boston, 
and  is  to  be  here  in  a  few  days.  She  does  not  leave  us  till 
August.  She  has  proposed  to  me  to  go  to  the  prairies,  tak- 
ing Niagara  en  route,  and  finishing  at  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony. 
Would  you  not  like  to  go  with  us  ?  That  would  be  superla- 
tive. \feel  {?iS  we  Yankees  say)  as  if  you  were  a  most  lov- 
able person.  Even  those  scurrilous  wretches,  the  Erasers, 
doff  their  caps  and  greet  j'ou  kindly ;  like  Satan,  when  he 
meets  Uriel,  "  He  casts  to  change  his  proper  shape."  With 
this  I  shall  send,  more  especially  for  your  father's  amuse- 
ment, the  first  year's  publication  of  our  National  Gallery.  I 
say  for  his,  for,  as  the  characters  are  for  the  most  part  military 
or  political,  they  cannot  have  much  interest  for  you.  I  made 
a  singular  acquaintance  with  the  person  who  takes  my  packet 
to  England  soon  after  the  publication  of  "  The  Linwoods." 
I  received  an  anonymous  letter  from  a  youth,  communicating 


A  Rejected  Lover.  225 

the  disastrous  fate  of  his  love — he  had  addressed  a  cousin  ; 
she  rejected  him.  He  gave  both  their  characters,  and  her 
letter — a  most  admirable  one,  a  model — and  appealed  to  me 
as  a  Daniel  in  the  coiir  d' amour.  He  wished  to  know  if  I 
thought  her  letter  final.  Poor  youth  !  the  case  appeared  to 
me  perfectly  hopeless,  and  so  I  told  him,  and  advised  him  to 
be  satisfied  with  the  happiness  of  even  an  unrequited  love  for 
such  a  woman.  He  took  my  advice,  and  has  since  been  to 
see  me  and  thank  me  for  it.  Still,  his  love  is  so  deep  and 
true  that  hope  is  not  a  necessary  ingredient  in  it. 

Give  my  best  respects  to  your  father,  and  thank  him  for 
doing  me  the  honor  of  reading  my  book. 

Mrs,  Butler  is  living  a  quiet  domestic  life,  idolizing  her 
sweet  baby,  and  preparing  for  her  visit  home.  I  fear  it 
will  be  hard  work  for  her  to  come  back  again. 

I  have  made  a  terrific  piece  of  work  of  criticising  "  Ion." 
I  faltered  from  a  feeling  of  my  presumption. 

This  letter  is  most  unreasonably  crammed,  and  yet  I  have 
left  much  unsaid,  my  dear  friend,  that  should  have  expressed 
to  you  how  delightful  your  letters  are  to  me,  and  how  deep 
an  interest  I  take  in  anything  that  concerns  you.  Accept 
the  greeting  of  all  my  tribe. 

Yours  truly,        C.  M.  Sedgwick. 

P.S. — I  ought  to  have  told  you  that  none  of  my  family 
suffered  by  our  big  bonfire  this  winter.  The  truth  is,  that 
such  is  the  prosperity  of  the  country,  so  unprecedented  that 
of  the  city,  that  there  is  little  apparent  loss.  It  is  shared 
by  thousands,  and  ruinous  to  very  few. 

Lady  Dacre  to  Miss  Mitford. 

2  Chesterfield  Street,  March  11,  1836. 
I  believe  I  am  doing  an  odd  thing,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  in 
enclosing  to  you  a  letter  from  the  glorious  Joanna,  in  which 
she  agrees  with  me  in  all  I  said  of  your  "Rienzi."  The 
knocking  your  heads  together  is  an  allusion  to  my  saying  I 
should  wish  to  bring  you  together  if  you  came  to  town,  and 
to  "knock  your  clever  heads  together."  She  agrees  with 
me  also  that  "  Ion  "  is  of  too  highly  poetical  a  cast  for  the 

10"^  ' 


226  The  Drama. 

uneducated  people  who  form  the  mass  of  an  audience.  I 
saw  her  "  Separation "  the  other  night,  on  the  whole  done 
little  justice  to,  and  remarked  that  an  infinitely  deeper  and 
more  breathless  attention  was  given  by  an  overflowing  pit 
to  that  ultra  abomination,  "Quasimodo."  The  rack  and  the 
wheel,  and  the  beautiful  scenery,  and  the  skipping  gypsies, 
and  the  singing,  and  the  bustle  and  the  noise,  were  more 
their  penny's  worth.  The  scenery,  I  must  say,  was  equally 
beautiful  for  the  "Separation."  I  think  it  would  be  an  act- 
ing play  in  good  hands.  At  least  two  essential  scenes  are 
equal  to  anything  she  has  ever  written.  I  heard  them  read 
by  Mr.  Young,  so  I  know  what  they  are  capable  of  I  am 
not  sorry  you  have  turned  aside  to  a  novel  as  infinitely  a 
more  sure  card  to  play  at  this  moment  (in  a  pecuniary  point 
of  view) ;  and  perhaps,  by  the  time  5'our  tragedy  is  ready, 
some  better  actors  may  have  turned  up,  and  our  taste  may 
have  improved.  The  theatre  is  at  so  low  an  ebb,  it  must 
mend,  I  think.  Even  our  sleeves  are  coming  to  their  senses ; 
having  crammed  into  them  more  than  in  our  skirts,  we  are 
going  to  have  them  the  size  of  the  limb  they  are  to  contain. 
So  we  may  find  that,  as  we  cannot  cram  more  bad  taste  and 
immorality  into  our  dramas,  we  shall  be  content  to  return 
to  real  tragedy  and  comedy. 

Excuse  all  this  scribbling  and  nonsense.  I  am  watching 
a  little  granddaughter's  dancing-lesson  at  the  same  time. 

Pray  return  my  letter  enclosed  to  Lord  Dacre,  The  Hoo, 
Welwyn,  Herts,  to  which  place  we  return  to-morrow,  and 
believe  me  Your  sincere  admirer,  B.  Dacre. 

Mrs.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Wood  Leighton,  June  11,  1836. 
You  see,  my  dearest  Miss  Mitford,  by  the  name  at  the 
head  of  this,  where  we  now  are — at  this,  veritably  the  most 
woodland,  and  quiet,  and  old-fashioned  of  English  towns. 
If  you  look  for  it  on  the  map  of  England,  or  even  of  Staf- 
fordshire, you  will  not  find  it,  but  instead  you  will  find 
Uttoxeter — a  queer  name,  is  it  not  ? — that  is  the  true  place, 
and  of  a  truth  so  exactly  is  the  character  of  the  town  and 
the  country  round  described  and  depicted  that  I  was  amazed 


"  Wood  Leightony  227 

at  the  fidelity.  The  fame  of  the  book,  if  it  ever  reaches 
this  place,  has  not  reached  it  at  present,  so  I  walk  among 
its  people  without  exciting  half  the  sensation  I  should  do 
if  they  knew  that  their  whereabouts  and,  as  they  would  sus- 
pect, themselves  figured  in  the  three  volumes. 

I  wish  you  were  here  with  us.  The  luxuriance  of  the 
whole  land,  even  in  this  season  of  drought,  is  wonderful ; 
and  the  whole  town  seems  full  of  gardens.  I  was  hardly 
aware  how  great  a  feature  this  was  in  the  town,  for,  compar- 
atively speaking,  these  gardens,  or  rather  courts,  full  of 
shrubbery,  are  of  recent  date;  and  such  windows  full  of 
house-plants !  It  is  truly  a  most  pleasant  old  town,  but  oh, 
so  quiet — stagnant  almost  1  I  love  dearly  a  quiet  house,  a 
large,  quiet  garden,  but  then  I  must  feel  that  beyond  and 
about  are  men  of  stirring  intellects,  among  whom  important 
questions  are  felt  as  such;  where  people  read,  and  care 
about  what  is  doing  and  done  in  the  world.  Here,  on  the 
contrary,  for  miles  and  miles  round  is  an  Arcadia  of  woods, 
and  green  hills,  and  deep,  picturesque  valleys  full  of  the 
landed  gentry,  who  have  grown  for  generations  sleek  and 
fat  and  quiet.  There  is  no  large,  influential  town  to  call 
forth  their  energies;  their  quietness  is  shown  in  the  very 
tone  of  their  voices.  Everybody  talks  as  if  they  were  only 
half-awake,  and  they  only  read  one  newspaper  for  twenty 
miles  round.  You  cannot  think  what  energetic  people  we 
seem  among  them;  one  is  absolutely  compelled  to  lower 
the  tone  of  one's  intellectual  interests  amongst  them.  It 
would  never  do  for  us  to  live  at  Wood  Leighton,  beautiful 
as  its  country  is. 

Dear  Miss  Mitford,  let  me  congratulate  you  on  the  suc- 
cess of  "Ion."  We  were  delighted  to  find  that  the  public 
could  appreciate  its  fine  morality  and  its  exquisite  poetry. 
It  certainly  was  more  than  we  hoped  for.  What  a  disgrace- 
ful review  was  given  of  it  in  the  Athenceum,  the  same  num- 
ber that  treated  "  Wood  Leighton "  so  scurvily,  even  after 
my  good  friend,  Henry  Chorley,  had  the  week  before  ex- 
pressed the  most  unqualified  praise  of  it  by  letter,  and  led 
me  to  suppose  it  would  win  a  handsome  notice.  The  critique 
of  "  Ion  "  will  do  the  tragedy  much  less  harm  than  it  must 


228  Revieivs. 

do  the  paper  in  which  it  appeared.  I  have  heard  no  one 
mention  it — and  many  have  mentioned  it  to  us — who  has 
not  expressed  the  most  perfect  disgust  of  it.  It  is  full  of 
such  bad  taste,  bad  feeling,  and  ignorance,  as  well  as  ab- 
surdity. My  husband  was  so  indignant  that  he  proposed 
writing  to  you  immediately  to  express  his  indignation,  but 
the  winding-up  of  his  affairs  occupied  him  so  completely 
from  hour  to  hour,  day  after  day,  that  he  never  could  find 
the  spare  moment,  and  then,  when  the  immediate  vexation 
was  passed,  we  resolved  to  write  to  you  from  this  place. 
And  now,  dear,  kind  Miss  Mitford,  if  you  have  read  "Wood 
Leighton,"  let  me  know  what  you  think  of  it  honestly.  I 
dare  say  hotiestly  to  you,  because  I  am  sure,  though  you  may 
not  like  all,  you  will  find  something  to  like.  You  will  not 
shear  me  down  root  and  branch  as  the  Athenaum  did.  Oh, 
it  was  a  cruel  criticism  to  thrust  at  one  at  the  very  fag-end 
— with  a  bad  book  tagged  to  one  like  a  dog  with  a  tin  to 
his  tail — was  insulting  indeed.  I  shall  never  forget  the  an- 
guish of  that  day ! 

You  cannot  think  how  I  enjoy  this  setting -out  on  our 
summer  ramble.  The  children,  dear  little  souls !  are  all 
safely  and  happily  disposed  of,  so  that  we  dismiss  anxiety 
for  them,  and  we  are  going  over  the  land  to  enjoy  our- 
selves, and  no  two  persons  under  the  sun  can  enjoy  a  sum- 
mer's ramble  more  than  we.  You  may  fancy  us,  if  you  like, 
wjnding  away  over  brown  hills  and  mosses,  by  old  ruins, 
over  mountains,  or  by  river -sides,  wayfarers  clad  properly 
for  our  expedition — William  with  a  knapsack  on  his  back 
containing  a  change  of  linen,  and  such  things  of  every-day 
use  as  civilized  people  cannot  do  without;  and  then  you 
may  fancy  whether  gypsies,  or  travelling  potters,  or  chair- 
menders,  were  ever  a  pair  of  more  authentic  vagabonds  than 
we.  You  will  hear  of  a  vagrant  poet  and  his  wife  being 
brought  up  before  some  worthy  Dogberry  or  other,  and  you 
may  depend  upon  it  it  will  be  ourselves. 

William  sends  his  love  to  you,  and  pray  make  our  united 
kind  regards  to  your  father. 

I  am  my  dear  friend,  yours  most  truly  and  affectionately, 

M.  HOWITT. 


Literature.  229 

Lady  Dacre  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Kimpton  Vicarage,  Thursday,  June  30,  1836. 

Dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  am  ashamed  to  present  myself 
before  you  after  my  apparently  ungrateful  conduct;  but  I 
am  not  really  ungrateful,  I  assure  you,  only  a  procrastinating 
shatterbrain,  and  everything  most  unpardonable  at  my  age, 
so  I  have  let  time  slip  through  my  hands  in  a  way  I  cannot 
account  for  without  thanking  you  for  your  great  kindness  in 
sending  me  your  own  very  beautiful  opera  and  the  wonder- 
ful production  of  your  young  friend.  I  wish  the  latter  to 
be  seen  by  better  judges  than  I  can  be,  who  am  no  scholar, 
and  it  is  thought  as  wonderful  as  you  think  it  by  those  well 
qualified  to  pronounce  on  it.  The  learning  she  displays  in 
the  preface  and  the  notes  makes  me  stare,  and  gives  me 
what  the  poor  people  call  the  "goose-skin  " — a  sort  of  vague 
sensation  of  awe  to  which  ignorance  is  subject.  Where  is 
the  marvellous  young  creature.'*  Is  it  possible  to  get  at  her? 
And  yet  her  sphere  is  so  much  above  mine  that  I  could  but 
look  at  her  as  we  did  the  other  day  at  the  eclipse,  through 
smoked  glass. 

I  have  brought  your  whole  parcel  down  here  for  my 
daughter's  benefit,  but  when  I  go  back  to  town  the  two 
books  shall  be  faithfully  deposited  in  Mr.  Harness's  hands. 
The  opera  I  consider  as  my  own,  and  shall,  with  a  thousand 
thanks,  keep  it,  and  value  it  for  its  own  sake,  and  your  sake, 
and  all  sorts  of  sakes. 

I  mean  soon  to  beg  your  acceptance  of  a  little  volume  I 
am  making  of  my  translations  from  "  Petrarch,"  but  I  will 
not  insist  on  your  reading  it.  Nobody  reads  translations 
who  can  read  originals,  and,  as  everybody  reads  Italian  now, 
my  work  is  a  folly.  The  extreme  difficulty  of  translating 
any  poet,  and  especially  Petrarch,  has  given  my  attempt  a 
value  in  my  own  eyes,  such  as  mothers  feel  for  their  ricketty 
child,  who  has  given  them  more  pains  to  rear  than  all  their 
stout,  chubby  urchins.  I  am  peeping  out  in  print  {publicly, 
not  privately,  as  this  is)  in  the  shape  of  an  interlude  in  one 
act  in  "  The  Keepsake,"  to  oblige  a  friend — really !  and  also 
in  a  very  trifling  thing  compiled  for  music  the  other  day, 


230  Literature. 

which  I  gave  Lord  Northampton  for  a  charity.  I  say  com- 
piled, because  I  wove  in  songs  I  had  written  long  ago.  I 
hope  your  novel  is  advancing  rapidly,  that  you  may  have 
your  mind  and  hands  free  for  your  tragedy,  in  which  I  take 
a  stronger  interest.  Every  woman  who  can  hold  a  pen 
writes  novels  now,  and  I  think  the  Miss  B.'s  stories  must 
bring  the  whole  thing  into  disrepute.  Don't  quote  me,  for 
their  father  is  Lord  D.'s  earliest  and  oldest  ally.  And  now, 
dear  Miss  Mitford,  I  will  encroach  no  longer  on  your  pre- 
cious time  and  great  good-nature.  Believe  me,  with  true 
esteem  and  admiration,  Yours  truly, 

B.  Dacre. 

The  allusion  at  the  commencement  of  this  letter  is  to 
Miss  Barrett. 


George  Darley.  23 1 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Letters  from  George  Darley,  Harriet  Martineau,  Lady 
Dacre,  and  Miss  Mitford. 

George  Darley,  the  writer  of  the  next  letter,  was  the  son 
of  a  Dublin  alderman,  who  disinherited  him  because  he  de- 
voted his  time  to  writing  poetry.  He  was  thus  compelled 
to  support  himself  as  best  he  could  by  literature,  and  labor- 
ing under  the  disadvantage  of  stammering — which  he  calls 
his  viask — kept  apart  from  society.  Miss  Mitford  says  that 
she  hears  he  is  "  a  very  elegant  and  excellent  person,"  and 
adds:  "I  should  think  him  interesting,  if  his  disappointment 
in  not  being  acknowledged  one  of  the  great  poets  of  the  age 
had  not  produced  the  most  intolerable  fastidiousness  and 
determination  to  disallow  all  merit  in  other  writers."  Dar- 
ley was  the  author  of  "Sylvia;  or,  the  May  Queen,"  and 
other  poems;  of  some  plays;  of  contributions  to  the  Lon- 
don magazines,  and  of  letters  on  art  to  the  Athenceum.  Miss 
Barrett  says  that  "  he  wrote  a  beautiful,  tuneful  pastoral  once 
— 'Sylvia;  or,  the  May  Queen' — but  the  thing  wanted  is 
passion,  pathos,  if  not  a  besides^  One  of  his  songs,  "I've 
been  Roaming,"  was  for  years  the  rival  of"  Cherry  Ripe." 

George  Darley  to  Miss  Mitford, 

8  Beaumont  Street,  Oxford,  Aug.  22  [1836  ?]. 
I  cannot  refrain,  even  at  the  risk  of  egotism,  dear  Miss 
Mitford,  from  expressing  my  pleasure  and  pride  at  your  re- 
ception of  my  sorry  little  poetical  tract, "  Nepenthe."  Praise 
in  general  is  to  me  more  painful  than  censure,  compliments 
as  formal  as  those  of  "the  season  "from  visitors,  the  frozen 
admiration  of  friends,  I  shudder  in  the  heart  at  all  this ;  but 
one  word  of  real  enthusiasm  such  as  yours  is  happiness,  hope, 
and  inspiration  to  me.  Such  as  yours,  I  say — for  when, 
together  with  being  enthusiastic,  praise  is  discriminative,  it 


232  Literary  Confefsions. 

becomes  to  me  what  a  feather  is  to  an  eaglet;  argue  as  we 
will,  the  spirit  cannot  soar  without  it.  Mine  has  been,  I 
confess,  for  a  long  time  like  one  of  Dante's  sinners,  floating 
and  bickering  about  in  the  shape  of  2i  fiery  tongue  on  the 
Slough  of  Despond.  If  it  ever  has  risen,  'twas  an  ignis  fatuus 
for  a  moment  onl}'.  Seven  long  years  did  I  live  on  a  char- 
itable saying  of  Coleridge's,  that  he  sometimes  liked  to  take 
up  "  Sylvia."  What  you  say  of  her  and  "  Nepenthe  "  will 
keep  the  pulse  of  hope  (which  is  the  life  of  the  spirit)  going, 
so  that  I  shall  not  die  inwardly  before  the  death  of  the  flesh. 
Many  do,  it  is  my  firm  belief,  who,  alas  !  have  had  still  more 
ambition,  and  less  success,  than  I.  Murder  is  done  every 
night  upon  genius  by  neglect  and  scorn.  You  may  ask, 
could  I  not  sustain  myself  on  the  strength  of  my  own  appro- 
bation? But  it  might  be  only  my  vanity,  not  my  genius, 
that  was  strong.  Pye  and  Gibber  no  doubt  did  so,  conceit- 
ed themselves  writing  for  posterity,  which,  indeed,  they  were 
— for  its  ridicule.  Milton  and  Wordsworth  are  not  instances; 
they  had  from  the  first  many  admirers,  though  far  from  as 
many  as  they  deserved.  Have  not  I,  too,  had  some,  how- 
ever few,  approvers  ?  Why,  yes,  but  their  chorus  in  my  praise 
was  as  small  as  the  voice  of  my  conscience,  and,  like  it, 
served  for  little  else  than  to  keep  me  uneasy.  You  see  I 
am  shriving  myself  to  you,  as  if,  like  the  Lady  of  Loretto, 
you  were  made  of  indulgences. 

Do  not,  I  know  you  will  not,  let  me  lose  your  esteem  for 
thus  avowing  the  "  last  infirmity."  Milton,  you  remember, 
excuses  it.  I  could  defend  it  too.  There  are  the  stars  as 
well  as  the  bubbles  of  ambition  ;  the  one  brightly  solid,  and 
exalted,  and  "age  remaining;"  the  other  glittering,  short- 
lived inanities  of  our  own  low  sphere.  Should  we  not  en- 
deavor to  approach  towards  the  Most  High  in  all  his  per- 
fections, intelligence  as  well  as  goodness  ?  Believe  me,  I 
am  far  above  the  vulgar  desire  iox  popularity.  I  have  none 
of  that  heartburn.  Indeed,  who  of  any  pride  but  must  feel 
as  high  as  scorn  above  public  praise  when  we  see  on  what 
objects  it  is  lavished?  Should  I  stand  a  hairbreadth  more 
exalted  in  my  own  esteem  by  displacing  for  a  day  such  or 
such  a  poetaster  from  his  pedestal  ?     But,  candidly,  judicious 


Literary  Confefsioiis.  233 

praise  is  grateful  to  me  as  frankincense,  partly,  no  doubt,  for 
the  love  of  fame,  born  with  us  like  our  other  appetites,  and 
greatly  do  I  feel  from  its  being  the  proof  that  my  supposed 
path  towards  the  Centre  of  Light  is  not  an  aberration.  To 
seek  and  to  keep  such  path  should  be  every  one's  immortal 
object,  because  there  alone  is  he  the  best  coefficient  in  ad- 
vancing himself  and  the  human  system.  Here  you  have  my 
intellectual  creed ;  how  it  should  have  come  into  such  a  let- 
ter I  cannot  tell,  but  I  have  seldom  the  power  to  direct  my 
mind,  and  must  only  follow  it. 

You  are  quite  right  about  "  Sylvia :"  the  grotesque  parts 
offend  grievously  against  good  taste,  I  acknowledge  the 
error,  and  deplore  it.  But  the  truth  is,  my  mind  was  born 
among  the  rude  old  dramatists,  and  has  imbibed  some  of 
their  ogre  milk,  which  gave  more  of  its  coarseness  than 
strength  to  my  efforts.  And  again,  "  Sylvia  "  was  written 
in  the  gasping  times  of  laborious  scientific  engagements. 
All  its  prose  especially  was  what  a  boiling  brain  first  threw 
up  to  the  surface,  mere  scum,  which  I  never  intended  to  pass 
for  cream.  Your  distinction  as  to  this  gratifies  me  much,  not 
because  it  is  ingenious — any  critic  can  take  an  ingenious  ex- 
ception— but  because  it  is  just;  beyond  all,  your  preference 
for  "  Nepenthe,"  an  unfinished  sketch,  to  "  Sylvia,"  a  com- 
pleted poem,  gives  me  confidence  in  your  judgment.  It 
shows  me  you  have,  what  is  so  difficult  to  meet  with,  a  sub- 
stantive, self-existent  taste  {ox poetry  itself,  when  you  can  thus 
like  storyless  abstraction  better  than  a  tale  of  some  (though 
little)  human  interest — not  that  the  latter  should  be  unap- 
preciated where  it  occurs,  but  it  alone  is  usually  thought  of. 

This  brings  me  to  your  advice  about  undertaking  a  subject 
of  both  natures,  the  imaginative  and  the  real.  Such  indeed 
always  is,  always  should  be,  the  scope  of  a  truly  Catholic 
poet.  But,  alas !  I  fear  myself  but  a  poor  sectarian.  The 
double  mind  seems  wanting  in  me ;  certainly  the  double  ex- 
perience, for  I  have  none  of  mankind.  My  whole  life  has 
been  an  abstraction,  such  must  be  my  works.  I  am  perhaps, 
you  know,  laboring  under  a  visitation  much  less  poetic  than 
that  of  Milton  and  Maeonides,  but  quite  as  effective,  which 
has  made  me  for  life  a  separatist  from  society — 


234  Literary  Confefsmts. 

"  From  the  %vays  of  cheerful  men 
Cut  off,  and  for  the  book  of  knowledge  fair 
Presented  with  eac/t  other  page  a  blank, 
And  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out." 

Indeed,  were  my  knowledge  of  humanity  less  confused  than 
it  is,  I  apprehend  myself  to  be  still  too  much  one-minded 
for  the  making  a  proper  use  of  it.  Do  you  not  expect  so 
from  "  Nepenthe  ?"  Does  it  not  speak  a  heat  of  brain  men- 
tally Bacchic  ?  I  feel  a  necessity  for  intoxication  (don't  be 
shocked,  I  am  a  mere  tea-drinker)  to  write  with  any  enthu- 
siasm and  spirit.  I  must  think  intensely  or  not  at  all. 
Now,  if  this  be  the  case,  if  my  mind  be  only  occasional,  in- 
termittent, collapsive,  which  (unaffectedly  impartial)  I  think 
it  is,  how  should  I  conduct  the  detail  of  a  story  where  poetic 
furore  were  altogether  out  of  place  ?  It  is  a  great  defect,  I 
own,  but  my  genius  (as  you  call  it)  never  enables  me  to  sus- 
tain a  subject;  the  subject  must  sustain  it.  I  do  so  despise 
the  pretension  to  omniscience  and  omnipotence  now  in 
vogue!  This  it  is  that  makes  us  so  feeble  and  shallow; 
will  not  the  streams  run  deeper  and  stronger  in  one  than 
many  channels?  But,  besides,  my  health  is  an  indifferent 
one;  a  tertian  headache  consumes  more  of  my  life  than 
sleep  does,  and,  worse  than  this,  not  only  wasting  it,  but 
wearing  it  down.  And  I  have  to  scribble  every  second  day 
for  means  to  prolong  this  detestable  headachy  life,  to  criti- 
cate  and  review,  committing  literary  fratricide,  which  is  an 
iron  that  enters  into  my  soul,  and  doing  what  disgusts  me, 
not  only  with  that  day,  but  the  remaining  one.  All  these 
things,  and  want  of  confidence  still  more  than  they,  keep  me 
a  long  letter-writer  at  your  service.  I  have  neither  time  nor 
inclination  for  aught  else.  Not  but  that  I  can  show  various 
first  acts,  introductory  cantos,  etc. — -could  paper  hell  with 
my  good  intentions — and  have  several  folios  only  to  be  cop- 
ied out  of  the  parchment  of  my  brain;  the  like  interruptions 
and  misgivings,  however,  cut  them  all  down  to  such  perform- 
ances as  "Nepenthe."  Your  praise,  indeed,  almost  touches 
my  lips  with  fire,  and  I  could  begin  to  utter  the  flame  of 
song.  After  having  viewed  a  subject  sufficiently,  I  will  dedi- 
cate it  without  fail  /^_>w/,  if  you  will  permit,  as  the  resuscita- 


Literary  Confefsions.  235 

tor  of  "  Sylvia,"  and  the  raiser  of  my  own  spirits  on  earth. 
But  for  you,  both  might  as  well  have  been  at  the  bottom  of 
the  Dead  Sea. 

I  write  at  this  fearful  length  because  it  is  the  only  way, 
dear  Miss  Mitford,  in  which  I  can  ever  have  unpainful  com- 
munion with  any  friend.  My  impediment  is,  as  it  were,  a 
hideous  mask  upon  my  mind  which  not  only  disfigures,  but 
nearly  suffocates  it.  Yet  I  hope  we  shall  meet,  for  even  let- 
ters are  half-unintelligible  without  the  recollections  of  those 
who  write  them.  Besides,  I  wish  so  much,  and  with  a  par- 
ent's fondness,  to  see  \\\^  foster-mother  of  my  "Sylvia"  and 
"  Nepenthe."  Egotism  !  egotism  !  from  first  to  last  this  let- 
ter is  all  about  myself.  Another  hateful  result  of  a  solitary 
life,  it  makes  me  very  selfish.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  it  be  not 
the  mother  of  as  many  vices  as  Idleness,  instead  of  so  much 
wisdom,  and  what  not,  it  is  said  to  hatch.  Swift,  you  know, 
says,  "There  are  many  wretches  who  retire  to  solitude  only 
that  they  may  be  with  the  devil  in  private."  Man  is  surely 
a  most  gregarious  animal;  we  ought  all  to  put  our  minds  to- 
gether as  near  as  the  other  beasts  do  their  noses.  I  say  this 
to  show  you  that  my  misanthropy  is  compelled,  and  that  my 
mind  has  not  grown  hairy  like  that  of  many  another  anchorite, 
as  well  as  his  body.  Your  recommendation  as  to  Mr.  Chor- 
ley  has  been  in  part  followed.  I  wrote  to  him  just  before 
leaving  London,  and  sent  him  your  "  Nepenthe."  But,  as  to 
making  his  acquaintance,  I  could  as  soon  "  eat  a  crocodile." 
However,  even  this  I  could  do  bit  by  bit,  and  a  new  acquaint- 
ance of  the  man  kind  I  get  down  in  the  same  way.  He  (Mr. 
Chorley,  not  the  crocodile)  wrote  me  a  most  kind  and  encour- 
aging answer.  I  well  believe  him  all  as  amiable  and  intellec- 
tual as  you  represent  him ;  upon  my  return  to  town  I  shall  cer- 
tainly visit  him  in  my  mask.  When  I  do  not  know  how  to  sub- 
scribe myself  with  all  the  warmth  yet  respect  I  feel,  it  is  my 
habit  simply  to  sa)',  Yours,  George  Darley. 

Miss  Martineau  to  Miss  Mitford. 

17  Pludyer  Street,  Westminster,  Nov.  9,  1836. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  cannot  now  indulge  in  writ- 
ing about  Catherine  Sedgwick,  or  any  other  of  my  dear  Ameri- 


236  International  Copyright. 

can  friends.  This  is  the  thirty-ninth  letter  I  have  written  on 
the  subject  of  the  other  half-sheet  since  yesterday  morning, 
and  I  can  scarcely  hold  the  pen.  We  want  you  to  sign  this 
petition.  Everybody  is  signing;  and  the  case  is  so  clear 
that  I  think  you  cannot  hesitate.  Mrs.  Somerville,  Miss 
Aikin,  and  I  are  signing.  We  expect  Miss  Edgeworth's  in 
a  post  or  two,  and  all  the  rest.  When  we  meet,  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  I  will  tell  you  the  circumstances  which  have 
roused  us  at  this  time.  We  have  very  strong  hopes  of  suc- 
cess, of  obtaining  a  law  this  session,  in  which  case  I  may 
have  to  wish  you  joy  of  a  good  prospect  for  your  purse; 
and  we  may  congratulate  each  other  on  (what  we  value  far 
more  than  money)  an  essential  service  having  been  rendered 
to  Science  and  Literature  in  both  countries.  I  hope  the 
Sedgwicks  will  get  up  petitions  to  support  ours  from  the 
U.  S.  authors.  Every  true  American  is  as  anxious  as  we 
are  to  obtain  this  law. 

No  time  is  to  be  lost.  The  petition  goes  the  end  of 
next  week.  Please  sign  the  printed  part,  and  return  it  by 
post  to  Messrs.  Saunders  and  Otley,  50  Conduit  Street, 
Regent  Street,  London.  Whenever  you  come  to  town,  do 
let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again.  It  is  one  of 
the  pleasures  I  long  for. 

Ever  yours  most  truly,  Harriet  Martineau. 

This  letter  seems  to  refer  to  a  movement  in  favor  of  in- 
ternational copyright.  In  June,  1837,  Miss  Mitford  writes 
to  Miss  Jephson :  "  Have  you  read  Harriet  Martineau's 
'America?'     She  is  a  great  honor  to  her  sex  and  country." 

George  Darley  to  Miss  Mitford. 

27  Upper  Eaton  Street,  Pimlico,  Dec.  23,  1836. 
I  do  not  mean,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  to  draw  your  eyes  out 
with  such  an  endless  epistle  as  my  last,  written  in  perfect 
ignorance  of  your  many  anxious  engagements,  which  were 
made  known  to  me  at  the  usual  time  of  all  desirable  intelli- 
gence— a  day  too  late.  Yet  I  heard  how  much  kind  inter- 
est you  had  taken  in  my  letter,  so  as  almost  to  tempt  me 
into  writing  you  another  pandect.     However,  by  good  luck 


Darleys  Timidity.  237 

the  many-tongued  lady  told  me  to-day  you  were  steeped  in 
tragedy  to  the  very  lips,  and,  now  that  you  are  supping  full 
with  horrors,  it  will  be  savage  to  accumulate  much  more 
upon  them  in  the  shape  of  such  grim  hieroglyphics  as  mine. 
The  chief  object  of  all  these  presents  is  to  wish  you  all  the 
success  you  merit.  May  it  come  in  a  Sunburst  of  Glory 
and  a  Shower  of  Gold  !  A  play-house  seems  to  me  as  mel- 
ancholy as  a  catacomb,  but  I  shall  venture  my  anatomy 
there  to  witness  your  triumph.  Laying  an  embargo  on  Mr. 
Forrest  seems  to  have  been  most  judicious;  our  native  per- 
formers are  salt  that  has  lost  its  savor;  him  I  have  not  seen, 
but  am  told  that  he  has  a  new-world  vigor  about  him  very 
impressive.  Again  do  I  wish  you  a  joyful  rise  from  that 
region  of  damnation  where  so  many  spirits  have  sunk  for- 
ever. 

I  have  also  to  return  you  with  thanks  the  extracts  you 
sent  me,  and  to  tell  you  I  have  taken,  like  a  good  patient 
(though  with  wry  face  enough),  the  new  acquaintance  you 
prescribed  for  me.  Nothing  ever  went  so  much  against  the 
stomach  of  my  inclination.  I  would  as  soon  be  ordered 
mummy.  For  the  reason  you  know,  all  strange  bodies  are 
distasteful  to  me.  At  this  one  my  gorge  rose  like  Hamlet's 
at  the  empty  cranium.  Habits,  manners,  tastes,  opinions, 
all  so  opposite.  We  had  often  met  with  the  same  congeni- 
ality as  a  snake  and  a  porcupine.  However,  I  was  deter- 
mined to  be  obedient,  so  on  the  first  occasion  went  up, 
shook  cold  hands,  and  felt  all  day  after  as  if  burnt  in  the 
palm  for  treason  against  true-heartedness.  But,  to  drink 
the  bitter  cup  of  obedience  to  the  dregs,  I  sent  him  my  book 
as  you  ordered,  and  stayed  away  myself,  as  I  was  not  quite 
sure  you  forbade.  Will  you  believe,  after  all  this,  that  we 
are  now  such  excellent  friends  I  scarce  can  think  we  were 
anything  else  ?  He  is  everything  you  spoke  him,  nothing  I 
thought  him — clear-headed,  sound-hearted,  only  as  much  too 
modern  of  mind  as  I  am  too  antiquated ;  so  you  see  it  was 
no  false  modesty  when  I  told  you  my  ignorance  of  the 
world.  Will  you  accept  the  volume  I  send  ?  It  is  my 
maiden  publication  (its  predecessor  was  my  childish  one),  so 
demands  all  your  tenderness  to  its  deficiencies.     Do  not,  I 


238  Flowers. 

pray  you,  read  the  prose,  in  pity  both  to  yourself  and  me ; 
some  of  the  verse,  I  am  told,  is  better  than  I  think  it,  and 
the  latter  too,  let  me  beg  in  parliamentary  phrase,  "  to  be 
read  this  day  six  months." 

Have  you  heard  from  the  kind-hearted  little  Careys? 
Pray,  if  you  write  to  them,  remember  me.  I  have  been  mis- 
erably ill  for  a  long  time,  knocking  at  Death's  door,  but  he 
had  not  the  charity  to  take  me  in.  Quite  well  now,  so  con- 
tent to  grovel  on, 

Ever  yours,  Miss  Mitford,  with  the  greatest  esteem  and 
regard,  George  Darley. 

Miss  Mitford  says  that  these  epistles  of  Barley's,  written 
in  a  quaint,  upright  hand,  "resembled  the  choicest  parts  of 
the  choicest  orations,"  and  were  "startling  to  receive  and 
terrible  to  answer."  She  was  not  personally  acquainted 
with  him,  but  inserted  one  of  his  poems  in  Finden's  "  Tab- 
leaux." His  works,  though  not  without  merit,  were  too 
enigmatical  for  the  public  of  the  day,  and  had  no  sale.  He 
died  in  London,  away  from  all  his  relations,  an  unsuccess- 
ful and  disappointed  man. 

Lady  Dacre  to  Miss  Mitford. 

2  Chesterfield  Street,  Friday,  July  7,  1837. 

Of  course,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  I  cannot  but  feel  highly 
gratified  by  the  honor  you  mean  to  do  me,  and  am  aware 
that  I  must  be  the  gainer  by  any  mode  of  coupling  my 
name  with  yours.  The  "  noble  Joanna  "  dahlia  will  be  the 
pride  of  my  garden,  and  if  we  ever  invent  a  new  flower,  as 
you  florists  make  nothing  of  doing,  I  think  I  must  christen 
it  "The  nice  little  Mitford."  "Nice,"  you  know,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  exclusives,  means  every  perfection.  The  "poor 
old  Dacre  "  you  imply  a  promise  of  shall  be  treated  with 
due  respect  when  it  arrives.  It  is  droll  enough  that  I  had 
just  been  reading  "The  Lost  Dahlia"  when  I  received  your 
letter  so  much  in  the  same  character. 

I  have  intended  to  thank  you  for  my  nice  book  for  these 
three  or  four  days  past,  but  wished  to  read  it  first,  and  have 
now  so  nearly  done  so  that  I  can  speak  of  it.     The  little 


Lady  Beecher.  239 

stories  are  all  pretty,  written  with  that  ease,  lightness,  liveli- 
ness, neatness,  and  grace  which  characterize  all  your  writ- 
ings, and  all  your  pictures  are  alive.  Your  landscape-paint- 
ing is  bright  and  true  as  the  Miss  Blakes'  sketches  made 
out  of  doors  at  one  sitting,  which  are  invaluable;  and,  if  you 
have  ever  seen  them,  you  will  not  be  angry  at  your  works 
being  compared  with  ihosQ  young  ladies\  which  at  first  might 
startle  you.  But  (here  comes  my  but,  you  see)  I  cannot  al- 
low you  to  go  on  with  these  slight  sketches  of  Berkshire 
scenes  and  Berkshire  doings.  We  must  have  something  of 
more  pith  and  substance  soon  from  the  author  of  "  Rienzi," 
or  we  shall  forget  it  was  you  who  wrote  that  very  powerful 
and  beautiful  and  successful  tragedy.  This  is  a  little  stop 
gap,  I  know,  and  a  charming  one  it  is,  but  I  must  insist  on 
your  putting  on  the  "sock"  soon.  The  dedication  to  the 
excellent  Harness  is  sweet;  I  particularly  like  it.  I  am 
very  glad  he  prints  his  play.  I  am  sure  it  will  do  him  great 
credit.  It  is  full  of  beauty ;  whether  suited  for  the  stage  or 
not  I  have  no  guess. 

Lady  Beecher  is  a  charming  person,  but  she  has  lost  so 
much  of  her  personal  beauty  that  she  might  not  charm  on 
the  stage,  as  she  once  did;  besides,  I  think  the  public  taste 
is  so  corrupted  now  that  the  delicacy  of  her  acting  would 
not  be  felt.  You  must  lay  about  you,  and  box  their  ears,  to , 
get  their  attention  nowadays;  but  you  can  box  their  ears, 
as  well  as  soothe  and  calm  down  every  rougher  feeling,  as 
you  do  in  those  rambles  in  your  pony-carriage  after  wild- 
flowers  and  cottage  children  in  which  I  have  just  accom- 
panied you. 

And  now,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  with  many  thanks  for  all 
your  kindness  to  me,  which  is  much  more  real  than  mine 
to  you,  Believe  me,  sincerely  yours, 

B.  Dacre. 

P.S. — I  wish  you  were  of  our  parties  at  Mr.  Kemble's,  and 
heard  him  read  Shakespeare,  and  his  daughter  sing. 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  written  by  Miss  Mit- 
ford to  Miss  Barrett  is  here  printed,  to  show  the  state  of 


240  Mifs  Mitford's  Cottage. 

domestic  discomfort  in  which  Miss  Mitford  and  her  father 
were  now  living : 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Barrett. 

Three  Mile  Cross,  Dec.  15,  1837. 

My  dear  Love, — I  have  only  a  moment  in  which  to  thank 
you  most  heartily  for  your  very  comfortable  bulletin,  and  to 
beg  you  to  continue  to  send  good  news.  We  are  in  the 
agony  of  moving  ourselves  and  our  goods  and  chattels  to  a 
cottage  still  smaller  than  this,  two  doors  off,  whilst  this 
house  proper  is  repaired  and  painted — the  two  ends  which 
have  been  taken  down  and  built  up  again  being  to  be  roofed 
in  on  Saturday  night,  which  drives  the  saws  and  hammers 
forward  to  the  interior,  and  we  find  that  in  these  closets  (by 
courtesy  called  rooms)  the  workmen  and  we  cannot  co- 
exist, manage  how  we  will.  You  may  comprehend  the  ca- 
pacity of  our  new  mansion  when  I  tell  you  that  we  are  to 
P^y  ;^2  loj.  for  the  quarter.  Dash  can't  abide  it ;  he  sticks 
to  me  as  if  stitched  to  my  gown-skirts. 

Mrs.  Hofland  writes  to  me  about  a  young  American  poet 
(Mr.  Thackeray),  who  came  to  England  partly  to  see  Miss 
Edgeworth  and  myself.  Miss  E.  was  very  kind  to  him,  but 
what  I  shall  do  about  him,  in  the  present  state  of  our  house, 
heaven  only  knows !  Did  I  tell  you  that  I  shall  have  a 
pretty  up-stairs  sitting-room,  thirteen  feet  square,  with  a  little 
ante-room,  lined  with  books,  both  looking  to  the  garden  ?  I 
am  only  grieved  at  the  expense,  for  though  the  building  is 
done  by  our  landlady,  there  must  be  incidental  expenses — 
carpets,  bells,  stoves,  etc.,  etc.  However,  it  is  less  than  mov- 
ing, unless  we  had  gone  into  Wales,  to  the  house  which  a 
dear  friend  offered. 


Mifs  Barrett.  241 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Miss  Barrett. — Letters  from  Miss  Barrett,  Lady  Dacre,  the 
Duke  of  Devonshire,  Mrs.  Howiit,  and  Joanna  Baillie. 

Mr.  Kenyon,  when  taking  Miss  Mitford  in  May,  1836,  to 
see  the  giraffes  and  the  diorama,  called  for  Miss  Barrett,  "  a 
hermitess  in  Gloucester  Place,"  to  whom  he  was  distantly 
related.  This  lady's  first  introduction  to  the  public  as  a 
poetess  was  through  the  insertion,  in  1832,  of  one  of  her 
poems  in  the  Nav  Monthly,  then  edited  by  Bulwer,  and 
through  Miss  Mitford's  publishing  some  of  her  poems  in 
Finden's  "Tableaux."  Miss  Mitford  then  said,  "  The  time 
will  come  when  your  verses  will  have  a  money  value." 
Afterwards  she  writes :  "  My  love  and  ambition  for  you 
seems  like  that  of  a  mother  for  a  son."  "  Our  sweet  Miss 
Barrett — to  think  of  virtue  and  genius  is  to  think  of  her." 
"  She  is  so  sweet,  and  gentle,  and  pretty,  that  one  looks  at 
her  as  if  she  were  some  bright  flower."  "The  fairest  and 
dearest  of  my  contributors  to  Finden's  'Tableaux.'  If  she 
be  spared  to  the  world,  you  will  see  her  passing  all  women, 
and  most  men,  as  a  narrative  and  dramatic  poet.  In  her 
modesty,  sweetness,  and  affectionate  warmth  of  heart,  she  is 
by  far  more  wonderful  than  her  writings."  Her  health  was 
a  constant  source  of  anxiety  to  her  friends.  "  She  is,  I  fear, 
going  rapidly  to  a  better  world.  She  is  too  sweet  and  gra- 
cious, as  well  as  too  wise  and  lovely,  to  be  long  spared." 
In  reference  to  her  writing  Miss  Mitford  says:  "When  I 
first  saw  her  she  spoke  too  well,  and  her  letters  were  rather 
too  much  like  the  very  best  books.  Now  that  is  gone  ;  the 
fine  thoughts  come  gushing  and  sparkling  like  water  from  a 
spring,  but  flow  as  naturally  as  water  down  a  hillside,  clear, 
bright,  and  sparkling  in  the  sunshine." 

II 


242  Mifs  Barrett. 


Miss  Barrett  to  Miss  Mitford. 

74  Gloucester  Place,  Monday  [1837]. 
I  cannot  hope,  my  dearest  Miss  Mitford,  that  it  may  have 
seemed  to  you  half  as  long  as  it  has  seemed  to  me  since  I 
wrote  last  to  you,  and  yet  it  is  a  month  since  your  delightful 
letter  brought  the  first  pleasure  to  me  at  a  season  of  deep 
sadness.  We  had  heard  from  the  West  Indies  of  the  death 
of  poor  papa's  only  brother,  of  one  in  past  times  more  than 
an  uncle  to  me,  and,  notwithstanding  all  the  comfort  with 
which  God  in  his  mercy  did  soften  this  affliction,  it  could 
not  but  be  felt,  even  as  the  affection  which  preceded  it  had 
been,  and  must  ever  be.  Dearest  Miss  Mitford,  the  passing 
away  of  everything  around  us  would  break  the  hearts  of  many 
of  us,  if  we  did  not  know  and  feel  that  we  are  passing  too. 
I  long  to  hear  of  you,  and  should  have  said  so  before,  and 
have  thought  day  after  day  I  will  write  to-morrow,  and 
then  again,  not  being  very  well,  I  have  put  it  off  to  some  less 
dull  moment  for  your  sake.  The  turning  to  spring  is  always 
trying,  I  believe,  to  affections  such  as  mine,  and  my  strength 
flags  a  good  deal,  and  the  cough  very  little ;  but  Dr.  Cham- 
bers speaks  so  encouragingly  of  the  probable  effect  of  the 
coming  warm  weather,  that  I  take  courage  and  his  medi- 
cines at  the  same  time,  and,  "  to  preserve  the  harmonies," 
and  satisfy  some  curiosity,  have  been  reading  Garth's  "  Dis- 
pensary," a  poem  very  worthy  of  its  subject.  Yes,  and,  be- 
sides, I  have  been  going  through  heaps  of  poets  ("oh,  the 
profaned  name !")  laid  up  in  Dr.  Johnson's  warehouses — 
Duke  and  Smith,  and  King  and  Sprat  (never  christened  in 
Hippocrene),  and  Pomfret,  with  his  choice,  not  mine,  and 
his  Pindaric  odes,  not  Pindar's,  in  which  he  exclaims  in  a 
rapture — 

"  Good  Heaven  would  be  extremely  kind, 
Either  to  strike  me  dead,  or  strike  me  blind," 

when  striking  him  dumb  would  be  more  to  my  mind!  By 
the  way,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  of  that  not  being  as  good  a  line 
as  either  of  his. 

Thank  you  for  your  most  interesting  remarks  upon  the 
drama;  Victor  Hugo's  plays  I  never  read,  but  will  do  so. 


The  Greek  Drama,  243 

His  poems  seem  to  me  not  very  striking,  more  bare  of  gen- 
ius than  such  of  his  prose  writings  as  I  have  happened  to 
see.  And  little  have  I  seen  of  the  new  school  of  French 
literature,  and  must  see  and  know  more  of  it.  De  Lamar- 
tine's  "Pilgrimage"  is  the  only  traveller's  book,  except 
"  Sindbad  the  Sailor  "  and  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  that  ever 
pleased  me  much;  and  his  poetry  is  holy  and  beautiful, 
though  deficient,  as  it  appears  to  me,  in  concentration  of  ex- 
pression and  grasp  of  thought.  To  speak  generally,  my 
abstract  idea  of  a  Frenchman  is  the  antithesis  of  a  poet,  but 
pray  do  not,  if  the  ptayer  does  not  come  too  late,  think  me 
quite  a  bigot.  There  is  nothing,  as  you  say,  like  the  Greeks, 
our  Greeks  let  them  be  for  the  future,  and  although  I  can 
scarcely  consent  to  crowning  Philoctetes  over  all,  it  would 
still  be  more  difficult  to  take  a  word  away  from  your  just 
praise.  The  defect  of  that  play  is  that  it  is  founded  upon 
physical  suffering,  and  its  glory  is  that  from  the  physical  suf- 
fering is  deduced  so  much  moral  pathos  and  purifying  energy. 
The  "CEdipus"  is  wonderful ;  the  sublime  truth  which  pierces 
through  it  to  your  soul  like  lightning  seems  to  me  to  be 
the  humiliating  effect  of  guilt,  even  when  unconsciously  in- 
curred. The  abasement,  the  self-abasement,  of  the  proud, 
high-minded  king  before  the  mean,  mediocre  Creon,  not  be- 
cause he  is  wretched,  not  because  he  is  blind,  but  because  he 
is  criminal,  appears  to  me  a  wonderful  and  most  affecting 
conception.  And  there  is  Euripides,  with  his  abandon  to 
the  pathetic,  and  .^schylus,  who  sheds  tears  like  a  strong 
man,  and  moves  you  to  more  because  you  know  that  his 
struggle  is  to  restrain  them. 

But  if  the  Greeks  once  begin  to  be  talked  of,  they  will  be 
talked  of  too  much.  I  should  have  told  you,  when  I  wrote 
last,  that  Mr.  Kenyon  lent  me  Mr.  Harness's  play,  which 
abounds  in  gentle  and  tender  touches,  and  not,  I  think, 
might  I  say  so,  in  much  concentration  and  dramatic  power. 
As  to  its  being  a  domestic  tragedy,  I  do  not  object  to  it  on 
that  account,  and  really  believe  that  I  don't  share  your  pref- 
erence for  imperial  tragedies.  Do  not  passion  and  suffer- 
ing pervade  Nature  ?  Tragedies  are  everywhere,  are  they 
not?     Or  at  least  their  elements  are,  or  is  this  the  pathos 


244  Mifs  Barretfs  Poems. 

of  radicalism  ?  My  book  is  almost  decided  upon  being,  and 
thanks  for  your  kind  encouragement,  dearest  Miss  Mitford, 
you,  who  are  always  kind.  There  is  a  principal  poem,  called 
the  "  Seraphim,"  which  is  rather  a  dramatic  lyric  than  a 
lyrical  drama,  and  as  long,  within  twenty  or  thirty  lines,  as 
my  translation,  "  The  Prometheus  of  ^schylus,"  and  in  two 
parts.  I  can  hardly  hope  that  you  will  thoroughly  like  it, 
but  know  well  that  you  will  try  to  do  so.  Other  poems, 
longer  or  shorter,  will  make  up  the  volume,  not  a  word  of 
which  is  yet  printed.  Would  not  "by  E.  B.  B."  stand  very 
well  for  a  name  ?  I  have  been  reading  the  "  Exile,"  from  Mar- 
ion Campbell,  with  much  interest  and  delight;  besides,  she 
made  me  forget  Dr.  Chambers,  and  feel  how  near  you  were. 
A  pleasant  feeling  to  everybody,  but  how  very  pleasant  to 
your  affectionate  and  grateful  E.  B.  Barrett. 

P.S. — My  kind  regards  to  Dr.  Mitford,  and  papa's  and  my 
sister's  to  you.  Our  house  in  Wimpole  Street  is  not  yet 
finished,  but  we  hope  to  see  the  beginning  of  April  in  it. 
You  must  not  think  I  am  very  bad,  only  not  very  brisk, 
and  really  feeling  more  comfortable  than  I  did  a  fortnight 
since. 

Lady  Dacre  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Kimpton  Vicarage,  Thursday. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — As  soon  as  I  read  yours,  with 
enclosure  for  Miss  Fox,  I  set  off  to  little  Holland  House  with 
them;  we  had  a  long  talk,  and  she  was  everything  we  could 
wish.  I  now  begin  to  open  my  heart  to  hopes  that  make  it 
thump  against  my  ribs  very  comfortably.  I  left  town  the  day 
after  I  saw  Miss  Fox,  and  return  thither  on  Saturday,  when, 
if  I  find  any  possible  means  of  playing  the  part  of  the  fly  on 
the  wheel  in  the  fable,  I  shall  be  full  as  happy  and  vainglorious 
as  that  same  celebrated  fly.  I  grieve  to  think  of  the  disap- 
pointment you  have  undergone  about  "  Otto "  and  your 
novel,  and  the  unpleasant  consequences  in  your  domestic 
comfort;  you  have  so  many  friends,  and  your  works  as  well 
as  yourself  are  so  much  esteemed,  that  at  romajttic  moments 
I  say,  "  Oh,  yes,  we  shall  succeed,"  and  then  comes  my 
worldly  knowledge  and  knocks  over  my  castles  in  the  air.     I 


Mifs  Mitford's  Pension.  245 

wonder  whether  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  has  any  voice 
in  these  things?  I  could  propitiate  him.  Surely  it  is  no 
joke  to  have  written  the  finest  and  most  successful  tragedy 
of  the  age ;  when  I  say  "  finest,"  I  mean  as  an  acting  play, 
for  experience  has  proved  that.  I  am  not  so  faithless  to  my 
glorious  Joanna  as  to  use  that  expression  in  an  unqualified 
sense.  You  would  not  like  me  if  I  did.  Apropos  of  that 
noble  creature,  I  called  on  her  a  few  days  before  I  left  town, 
and  thought  both  herself  and  her  sister  much  broken.  I 
have  a  lovely  letter  from  her  to-day;  but  it  is  the  letter  of  a 
lovely  spirit  about  to  depart  to  its  native  sphere.  "  In  its 
weak  virtues  wrapped  and  bes-t  prepared,"  vide  my  own  trans- 
lation of  a  part  of  Petrarch's  "  Trionfo  della  Morte."  And 
now,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  I  will  release  you,  and  hope  to 
have  something  to  say  ere  long  better  worth  your  reading. 
Yours  very  sincerely,  B.  Dacre. 

P.S. — I  have  sent  my  book  to  Miss  Barrett,  and  have  a 
sweet  note  from  her.  I  shall  try  to  niggle  on  with  her ;  but 
I  am  too  deaf  and  old,  I  fear,  to  scrape  acquaintance  with  a 
young  person. 

Duke  of  Devonshire  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Chatsworth,  May  18,  1837. 
Dear  Madam, — Lord  Melbourne's  nephew  and  private 
secretary^  Mr.  Cowper,  is  a  very  great  friend  of  mine,  and  I 
have  written  to  him  most  fully  about  you,  and  he  will  not  fail 
to  show  my  letter,  and  to  press  the  subject  with  Lord  Mel- 
bourne. But  do  not  let  me  make  you  sanguine,  I  never  yet 
found  a  minister  who  would  do  anything  the  more  for  my 
asking. 

How  sorry  I  am  to  find  that  you  have  been  annoyed  by 
cares  and  illness !  From  the  latter  few  seem  to  have  escaped 
in  this  extraordinary  winter  and  spring. 

I  have  the  honor  to  be,  dear  madamj 

Your  most  sincere  humble  servant, 

Devonshire. 

The  preceding  letter  refers  to  the  movement  for  obtaining 
a  literary  pension  for  Miss  Mitford.     It  was  originally  sug- 


246  Country  Life, 

gested  by  Mr.  Harness,  and  warmly  forwarded  by  Lady 
Dacre,  who  wrote  to  Miss  Fox  on  the  subject,  and  thus  se- 
cured Lord  Holland's  powerful  influence.  Accordingly,  at 
the  end  of  May,  1837,  Lord  Melbourne  granted  her  ;^ioo  a 
year. 

Mrs.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

•  Esher,  June  11,  1837. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Allow  me  to  congratulate  you 
on  a  subject  which  has  given  us  unfeigned  pleasure,  and 
which  we  have  found  stated  as  fact  in  the  AthencBU7fi  of  yes- 
terday— that  you  are  now  to  a  certain  extent  beyond  the 
necessity  of  too  far  straining  and  taxing  your  mind;  that  the 
government  has  done  itself  the  honor  of  benefiting  you.  I 
know  no  circumstance  that  could  have  raised  the  Whig  min- 
istry, of  whom  he  has  no  exalted  opinion,  higher  in  my  hus- 
"band's  estimation  than  this  good  act  of  theirs.  Long  may 
you  live  to  enjoy  it,  and  to  produce  through  it  the  best  works 
you  will  have  written.  .  ,  . 

Dear  Miss  Mitford,  I  cannot  conceive  how  i^  is  that  you 
contrive  to  do  anything  in  the  country.  People  talk  about  the 
seclusion  and  the  quiet  of  the  country  being  so  favorable  to 
literary — successful  literary  labors.  I  think  not.  I  sit  here 
in  pleasant,  sunny  rooms  with  flowers  all  round  me,  and  birds 
singing  as  they  sang  in  Paradise,  and  for  the  life  of  me  I  can- 
not write,  though  I  have  bound  myself  to  finish  a  little  volume 
by  September,  to  be  called  "  Birds  and  Flowers ;"  but  the 
truth  is,  everything  is  so  pleasant  that  my  mind,  instead  of 
being  concentrated  to  a  task,  is  all  afloat  with  the  outward 
enjoyment  of  things.  I  must  satiate  myself  with  all  the  abun- 
dance of  natural  objects,  before  I  can  sit  down  to  write  about 
them.  I  remember  at  Nottingham,  in  the  heart  of  the  town, 
I  used  to  think  of  such  things,  and  create  a  vision  of  them 
in  my  own  mind  till  I  could  do  no  other  than  write  about 
them;  here,  instead,  I  go  out  and  look  at  them.  But  it 
is  a  heavenly  life,  after  all,  if  one  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
enjoy  it. 

You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  my  husband  is  just  bringing 
his  "  Rural  Life  "  to  a  conclusion,  I  .expect  another  fort- 
night's work  will  complete  it.     I  am  sure  you  will  like  it. 


Mifs  Mitford's  Pension.  247 

When  you  have  leisure,  let  us  hear  from  you.  We  want  to 
know  exactly  what  you  are  doing,  and  when  the  new  volumes 
will  be  out. 

Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  send  us  an  approved  recipe  for 
pot-pourri,  for  I  am  sure  you  must  possess  such  a  one,  and 
Anna  Mary  is  exactly  the  damsel  for  the  execution  of  such 
works. 

With  kindest  regards  to  your  father  both  from  William  and 
myself,  and  love  to  you,       I  am,  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Yours  truly,  M.  H. 

The  application  to  which  the  following  is  a  reply  seems  to 
have  been  made  at  the  suggestion  of  Lady  Dacre. 

Miss  Baillie  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Hampstead,  June  30,  1837. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — It  is  impossible  that  I  should 
feel  any  request  of  yours  at  all  intrusive,  or  otherwise  than 
friendly  and  kind,  and  I  truly  regret  that  I  must  on  the  pres- 
ent occasion  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  obeying  you.  Since 
the  age  of  annuals  began  (a  good  many  years  now)  I  have 
always  refused  to  contribute  to  them — though  many  of  their 
most  eminent  editors  requested  me  to  do  so,  and  to  make 
my  own  terms — because  I  did  not  like  that  species  of  litera- 
ture. 

The  circumstance  you  allude  to  regarding  Lady  Dacre  and 
Mr.  Harness  gave  me  great  satisfaction,  though  it  was  not 
from  either  the  one  or  the  other  tliat  I  "heard  of  it.  Our  minis- 
ter will  not  suffer  in  the  public  opinion  from  ///^/appropriation 
of  the  public  money,  but  will  gain  credit  by  it,  as  he  ought. 
We  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Lady  Dacre  yesterday,  who 
kindly  came  to  take  leave  of  us  for  the  season,  and  brought 
Lady  Beecher  (formerly  Miss  O'Neil)  with  her,  who  seems 
a  well-informed,  sensible  woman,  and  brought  former  scenes 
to  my  recollection  which  I  now  look  back  upon  with  pleasure 
and  regret.  The  last  lime  we  had  met  was  in  a  summer- 
house  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hampstead,  when  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  in  one  of  his  pleasanter  humors,  sat  between  us. 


248  Austria. 

Lady  Dacre  told  me  that  ]\Irs.  Sullivan  *  is  in  the  press 
again  with  a  little  book  for  promoting  economy  amongst  the 
countrywomen  of  her  neighborhood;  and  she  could  not  do 
them  a  better  service.  It  is  to  be  privately  printed  and  given 
away.  What  an  active,  public-spirited  creature  she  is  ! — 
worthy  of  her  maternal  parentage. 

I  am  glad  Mrs.  Baillie  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  when 
at  Mortimer.  It  was  one  of  the  pleasures  she  looked  for- 
ward to  when  she  left  home.  She  is  indeed  what  you  call 
her — a  person  of  kind  actions  and  gracious  words.  I  am  very 
proud  that  there  should  be  a  geranium  in  your  garden  bear- 
ing my  name.  I  hope  it  will  flourish  there,  and  continue  to 
be  a  proof  of  your  kind  partiality  to  , 

Your  sincere  and  grateful  friend, 

J.  Baillie. 

Mrs.  Trollope  io  Miss  Mitford. 

Hadley,  Aug.  2, 1837. 
You,  my  dear  friend,  know  too  well  what  it  is  to  have  to 
finish  a  book,  much  to  wonder  at,  or  much  to  blame,  my  not 
attempting  to  write  letters  to  any  one  till  my  volumes  on 
Austria  were  finished.  These,  I  am  happy  to  say,  are  now 
off  my  hands.  Mr.  Bentley  has  got  them,  and  I  am  free. 
Our  expedition  has  been  a  very  pleasant  one,  even  although 
my  dear.  Tom  was  carried  away  from  us  in  the  very  midst 
of  all  our  Vienna  gayeties  in  order  to  take  upon  himself  the 
office  of  under-master  of  King  (Edward's  ?)  school  at  Bir- 
mingham. This  is  an  appointment  he  has  been  long  wishing 
for,  and  w^e  were,  therefore,  too  reasonable  to  grumble  much, 
but  the  losing  him  was  very  disagreeable.  I  heartily  wish 
that  you,  with  your 'rich,  peculiar  vein,  would  visit  Austria, 
and  give  us  some  racy  sketches  of  its  happy,  happy,  happy — 
yea,  thrice  happy  peasantry !  I  have  no  power  to  treat  such 
a  subject  as  you  would  do;  but  it  is  a  very  fine  one.  There 
is  a  sturdy  independence,  a  gay  light-heartedness,  and  thrifty 
industry  in  their  natures  which  seems  made  up  of  England, 
France,  and  Scotland,  taking  exactly  what  is  best  in  each. 

*  Lady  Dacre's  daughter. 


''Bozr  249 

Of  the  capital,  of  which  we  saw  more  than  a  tour  generally 
shows,  having  passed  eight  months  there,  I  can  only  say 
that  it  is  the  very  gayest  place  I  ever  entered;  but,  agree- 
able as  it  is  for  a  season,  I  should  not  like  to  pass  every 
winter  in  such  a  careless  round  of  dissipation.  We  really 
found  it,  as  the  housemaids  say, "  too  much  for  our  strengths," 
but  those  to  the  manner  born  take  it  very  easily,  and,  with 
the  restoration  of  a  few  weeks  of  summer  interval,  pass  their 
whole  lives  without  being  for  a  single  evening  alone. 

The  first  book  I  inquired  for  on  my  return  was  "  Miss 
Mitford's  novel,"  but  I  was  told  no  novel  had  appeared. 
"Country  Stories,"  however,  are  promised  me,  and  these  I 
expect  to  enjoy  as  I  did  their  predecessors  before  them ;  for, 
though  conscious  of  growing  old  apace,  touches,  true  touches 
of  nature  reach  my  feelings  as  quickly  as  ever.  I  doubt, 
however,  if  I  have  so  much  fun  in  me  as  heretofore,  for  I  do 
not  laugh  at  "  Boz  "  half  so  perseveringly  as  most  others  do, 
and,  as  I  will  not  put  this  obtusity  down  to  my  want  of  ca- 
pacity, I  must  attribute  it  to  my  age.  You,  my  dear  friend, 
who  are,  as  I  take  it,  some  half-score  of  years  or  more  my 
junior,  can  judge  of  these  popular  pleasantries  more  fairly ; 
and  I  really  wish  you  would  tell  me,  if  you  go  on  number 
after  number  sharing  the  ecstasy  that  causes  thirty  thousand 
of  the  "  Pickwick  Papers  "  to  be  sold  monthly. 

My  good  friend  Mr.  Bentley,  who,  with  his  charming  wife, 
was  with  me  last  week,  tells  me  that  Mr.  Macready  has 
taken  Covent  Garden,  and  that  he  (Bentley)  is  to  be  acting- 
manager.  This  gives  hope,  I  think,  of  something  like  a  reg- 
ular drama  again,  and  I  hail  it  joyfully. 

I  hope  your  father  is  quite  well.  Pray  remember  me  to 
him,  and  believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Very  faithfully  yours,  F.  Trollope. 

P.S. — Are  you  not  rejoiced  at  our  friend  Marianne's  good 
fortune  ?    Your  ;^ioo  ought  to  have  been  ;^3oo. 

Mrs.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Esher,  Oct  23,  1837. 
Mv  DEAR  Miss  Mitford, — With  this  comes  a  little  book, 
which,  little  as  it  is,  will,  I  hope,  find  favor  in  your  eyes. 

II* 


250  Distance  from  Lo?idon. 

You  will  think  I  am  a  most  devoted  writer  of  juvenilities; 
but  the  truth  is,  one  has  no  satisfaction  in  writing  what  pub- 
lishers will  not  purchase;  thus  my  poor  ballads  lie  by,  and 
I  have  busied  myself  through  the  latter  months  of  the  sum- 
mer over  this  little  book,  and,  after  all,  found  it  a  very  pleas- 
ant occupation. 

We  have  been  quite  in  an  unsettled  state  through  the  sum- 
mer from  the  intention  we  had  of  removing  nearer  town. 
We  found  ourselves  here  quite  too  distant  from  the  advan- 
tages of  London,  and  William  perfectly  impatient  under  the 
sense  that,  if  he  wanted  to  consult  a  book  in  the  British 
Museum,  he  must  drive  sixteen  miles,  or  torment  himself  by 
mounting  a  slow  stage-coach.  He  therefore  perambulated 
the  entire  neighborhood  of  London,  and  all  around  friends 
made  a  hue  and  cry  after  any  "genteel  residences,"  "villas," 
or  "desirable  cottage  residences,"  as  the  house-agents'  books 
have  them  —  and  endless  were  the  places  he  visited,  both 
likely  and  unlikely.  After  all,  the  conclusion  he  was  com- 
pelled to  come  to  was  that  here  we  must  remain  for  the  win- 
ter at  least,  for  not  one  place  did  he  find  that  in  itself  offered 
half  the  comforts  and  conveniences  of  our  own  home,  spite 
of  the  envious  fourteen  miles.  So  here  we  are  still,  and, 
as  the  Southampton  railroad  will  be  opened  between  this 
and  London  in  the  spring,  we  shall  have  an  opportunity  of 
proving  whether,  as  the  learned  in  these  matters  tell  us,  it 
will  offer  us  all  the  advantage  of  a  short  stage  distance. 

I  hope  you  will  not  be  tired  of  hearing  of  the  "  Rural  Life 
of  England,"  for  I  think  my  letters  always  tell  you  that  it  is 
in  progress.  You  will,  however,  now  see  it  soon,  for  every 
day  brings  proof-sheets;  and  Longmans  are  impatient  for  its 
publication  in  November.  William  has  had  Mr.  Williams, 
the  wood-engraver,  who  furnishes  twelve  cuts  for  each  vol- 
ume, down  here  twice  to  inoculate  him  with  some  sense  of 
true  country  objects.  He  is  a  man  of  a  curious  mind,  not  apt 
in  originating  ideas,  but  quick  and  frequently  very  happy  in 
working  them  out  when  they  are  suggested.  He  has,  in  his 
happiest  designs,  worked  under  William's  eye  and  hand  like 
an  obedient  child,  and  has  produced  some  of  the  very  best 
designs  that  have  appeared  in  wood  since  the  days  of  Bewick. 


Mrs.  Jameso7i.  251 

I  hope  your  house  alterations  are  all  completed,  and  that 
you  are  enjoying  the  comfort  of  them. 

With  kind  regards  to  your  father,  and  best  and  most  af- 
fectionate wishes  for  yourself, 

I  am,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  yours  truly, 

M.  HOWITT. 

Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford. 

New  York,  Feb.  9,  1838. 
Mrs.  Jameson  leaves  us  to-morrow,  to  our  deep  and  sor- 
rowful regret.  Seldom  has  any  one  taken  from  a  foreign 
shore  an  affection  nearer  to  that  which  Nature  has  made  to- 
flow  with  our  blood.  Such  ties  and  influences  as  these  do 
more  to  bind  our  countries  together  than  commercial  com- 
pacts and  public  treaties.  This  personal  intercourse  is 
constantly  increasing,  and  as  there  is  no  barrier  of  language, 
as  we  are  of  "  one  baptism  and  one  faith,"  we  mingle  like 
children  of  one  family:  as  we  are.  I  am  sure,  if  you  were 
to  see  Mrs.  Jameson  and  Robert  Macintosh  lingering  with 
our  family  circle  till  twelve  o'clock  over  a  cold  partridge 
and  a  bottle  of  champagne,  our  tastes,  sympathies,  and  asso- 
ciations homogeneous;  if  you  were  to  hear  the  shouts  of 
laughter  at  Macintosh's  drollery,  and  his  ineffable  chuckle 
at  our  stories,  you  would  hardly  dream  we  were  born  three 
thousand  miles  apart.  Would  that  your  bright  and  kindly 
spirit  were  among  us!  I  made  some  sad  exclamations  last 
evening  in  relation  to  Mrs.  Jameson's  departure,  when  my 
sister  said,  consolingly,  "Oh,  Miss  Mitford  will  be  here  in 
the  next  packet."  A  startling  sound  it  was  to  me,  my  dear 
friend,  though,  I  fear,  not  a  prophecy.  But  if  you  will  not, 
■or  cannot  come  to  see  us;  if  the  mountain  cannot  come  to 
Mahomet,  Mahomet,  etc.  If  God  continues  my  life  and 
health,  I  will  go  to  England  in  another  year.  My  plan  is  to 
go  with  Kate,  to  be  absent  a  year,  to  pass  the  summer  in 
England,  and  nine  months  on  the  Continent.  It  is  a  pleas- 
ant dream,  at  any  rate — a  most  pleasant  confidence  that  I 
shall  see  two  friends  in  that  world  of  strangers.  I  have  not 
the  common  curiosity  to  see  authors  as  authors.  We  have 
the  best  of  them  in  their  books,  and  an  hour  or  two  in  their 


252  Society  Matters. 

society  (grudgingly  given)  would  not  suffice  to  give  even  a 
glimpse  into  their  soul,  those  fountains  that  have  sent  forth 
such  full  and  pleasant  streams  to  us.  Besides,  I  find  in  the 
lives  of  Scott,  Mrs.  Hemans,  etc.,  etc.,  even  Charles  Lamb, 
that  we  Americans  are  regarded  as  bores.  Nor  have  I  any 
ambition  to  see  your  great  people.  Accustomed  to  a  society 
where  we  meet  710  superiors,  I  could  take  no  pleasure  where 
I  was  admitted  on  sufferance.  But  with  this  pride,  which 
you  may  think  becomes  an  Indian  as  well  as  an  American, 
I  feel  a  respect  and  love  for  England  that,  I  think,  would 
make  me  throw  myself  on  the  ground  and  kiss  the  earth 
that  would  appear  to  me  written  all  over  with  bright  immor- 
tal names. 

But,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  I  am  filling  up  my  letter  with 
myself  when  I  should  be  thanking  you  for  your  last  kind, 
but  rather  sad,  letter.  I  was  grieved  that  you  should  have 
had  such  vexations  from  my  countryman  ;  in  return  for 
all  we  have  received  from  you,  we  should  send  you  good, 
and  not  evil.  I  never  have  seen  Forrest.  I  believe  the  rep- 
utation he  acquired  in  England  has  not  been  sustained 
here.  But  I  know  little  of  theatrical  affairs.  Since  the 
Kembles  left  us  I  have  rarely  seen  the  inside  of  a  theatre. 
Strange  to  say,  I  have  not  yet  seen  Mrs.  Butler;  Kate  and 
I  are  looking  forward  to  the  pleasure  of  passing  next  month 
with  her.  The  resundering  of  her  bonds  to  England  was  a 
shock  to  her,  but  her  late  letters  indicate  cheerfulness ;  and, 
as  she  has  at  present  on  hand  the  engrossing  business  of 
conjugal  life,  she  has  too  much  to  do  with  the  future  to 
sigh  for  the  past.  Your  friends,  the  Theodores,  are  truly 
and  warmly  your  friends.  My  brother  is  passing  a  most 
philosophic  winter  in  the  country,  and  his  son  is  shut  up 
in  his  law-office  in  town.  His  wife  is  iiv  a  fair  way  to  make 
up  last  winter's  loss,  inasmuch  as  the  living  can  replace  the 
dead.     Alas !  those  places  are  never  filled. 

Kate  says, "  Give  my  best  love  to  Miss  Mitford,  and  tell 
her  I  shall  certainly  get  you  across  the  water  next  year." 
You  know  our  young  people  have  no  modest  notion  of  their 
go-ahead  faculties.  We  are  going  to  send  you  a  Mr.  Leas- 
ten,  a  painter,  who  has  been  among  our  Western  tribes  of 


Indians.  253 

-Indians,  where  no  other  white  man  has  been,  and  painted 
\i\\\\  fidelity  the  Indians,  their  costumes,  occupations,  sports, 
religious  observances,  views  of  their  villages,  homes  inside 
and  out,  numberless  views  of  their  rivers,  prairies,  etc.,  etc. 
He  has  made  an  immense  collection  of  costumes,  imple- 
ments, weapons,  etc.  He  is  a  man  of  perfect  integrity,  of 
the  most  delightful  enthusiasm,  and  better  acquainted  than 
any  other  man  with  the  history  and  domestic  habits  of  the 
Indians.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Osceola,  the  Seminole 
chief,  to  whom  we  have  been  so  disgracefully  treacherous, 
who  has  just  died  in  the  prison  to  which  he  was  betrayed? 
His  portrait  alone,  with  Catlin's  description  of  him,  is  worth 
a  journey  to  London.  Do  not  fail  to  see  this  pictured  his- 
tory of  that  passing  race. 

God  bless  you,  dear  Miss  Mitford  !  My  respectful  re- 
membrances and  best  wishes  to  your  father,  and 

Believe  me,  ever  truly  yours, 

C.  M.  Sedgwick. 

P.S. — If  it  would  be  the  slightest  gratification  to  Mr.  Tal- 
fourd,  pray  tell  him  that  we  are  delighted  here  with  his 
"  Life  of  Charles  Lamb,"  and  feel — what  we  hardly  thought 
possible — a  deeper  debt  to  the  author  of  "  Ion." 


254  Mrs.  Jameson. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Letters  from  Mrs.  Jameson  and  Miss  Barrett. — Mr.  Kenyon. 
— Poem.  —  Mrs.  Opie.  —  Letters  from  Mrs.  Opie,  Miss  Bar- 
rett, Lady  Dacre,  and  "  Barry  Cornwall." 

The  only  letter  from  Mrs.  Jameson  among  Miss  Mitford's 
papers  is  the  following  —  evidently  written  soon  after  her 
first  visit  to  Three  Mile  Cross.  She  seems  to  have  been 
introduced  by  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Barrett.  The  latter 
writes :  "  I  had  heard  that  Mrs.  Jameson  was  pedantic,  and 
I  found  her  as  unassuming  as  a  woman  need  be — both  un- 
assuming and  natural.  The  tone  of  her  conversation  is  rather 
analytical  and  critical  than  spontaneous  and  impulsive,  and 
for  this  reason  she  appeared  to  me  a  less  charming  com- 
panion than  our  friend  at  Three  Mile  Cross,  who  '  wears 
her  heart  on  her  sleeve,'  and  shakes  out  its  perfumes  at  every 
moment."  On  Miss  Barrett's  marriage  Mrs.  Jameson  ac- 
companied her  and  Mr.  Browning  on  their  wedding-tour  in 
Italy. 

Mrs.  Jameson  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Ealing,  Saturday. 

I  must  have  seemed  a^  thankless  wretch,  my  dear  Miss 
Mitford,  but  ever  since  my  return  home  1  have  been  very 
poorly,  and  miserable,  and  good  for  nothing.  My  visit  to 
you  was  fraught  with  new  ideas,  and  I  brought  away  a  most 
agreeable  impression  of  "  Our  Village,"  as  well  as  of  my 
kind  hostess.  Will  you  not  be  tempted  to  pause  some  day 
on  your  way  to  town,  and  peep  at  me  in  my  tiny  cell  ? 

Your  CEnophera  (or  Qinephora,  which  is  it  ?)  is  in  the 
ground  and  flourishing  apparently — a  very  pretty  memorial 
of  my  visit. 

I  have  written  to  Miss  Barrett,  expressing  the  gratitude  I 


Flower-seeds.  255 

felt,  without  volunteering  any  uncalled-for,  uninvited  criti- 
cism. Believe  me,  ever  truly  yours, 

Anna  Jameson.* 

Miss  Barrett  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Torquay,  Friday,  Nov.  13,  1838. 

Whenever  I  forget  to  notice  any  kindness  of  yours,  do 
believe,  my  beloved  friend,  that  I  have,  notwithstanding, 
marked  the  date  of  it  with  a  white  stone,  and  also  with  a 
heart  not  of  stone.  .  .  . 

You  said  "  distribute  the  seeds  as  you  please ;"  so,  mind- 
ful of  "those  of  my  own  household,"  I  gave  Sept  and  Occyt 
leave  to  extract  a  few  very  carefully  for  their  garden,  com- 
posed of  divers  flower-pots  and  green  boxes  a-gasping  for 
sun  and  air  from  the  leads  behind  our  house,  and  giving  the 
gardeners  fair  excuse  for  an  occasional  coveted  colloquy 
with  a  great  chief  gardener  in  the  Regent's  Park.  Yes,  and 
out  of  a  certain  precious  packet  inscribed  (as  Arabel  de- 
scribed it  to  me)  from  Mr.  Wordsworth,  I  desired  her  to 
reserve  some  for  my  very  own  self,  because,  you  see,  if  it 
should  please  God  to  permit  my  return  to  London,  I  mean 
("pway  don't  waugh,"  as  Ibbit  says,  when  she  has  been  say- 
ing something  irresistibly  ridiculous) — I  mean  to  have  a  gar- 
den too — a  whole  flower-pot  to  myself — in  the  window  of 
my  particular  sitting-room  ;  and  then  it  will  be  hard  indeed 
if,  while  the  flowers  grow  from  those  seeds,  thoughts  of  you 
and  the  great  poet  may  not  grow  from  them  besides. 

Dearest,  dearest  Miss  Mitford,  pray  never,  never  do  tear 
up  any  old  letter  of  yours  for  the  sake  of  sending  me  a  new 
one.  Send  old  and  new  together.  Postages  upon  your  let- 
ters never  can  be  thought  of,  and  besides,  my  correspondents 
are  not  like  yours,  millions  in  the  way  oi  number.  They  in 
Wimpole  Street  knew  my  doxy  upon  such  subjects  too  well 

*  Mrs.  Jameson  was  unfortunate  in  her  family  affairs,  and  nobly  la- 
bored to  support  her  mother  and  some  other  relations  by  her  pen.  Mrs. 
Butler  (F.  Kemble)  describes  her  as  having  "  red  hair,  a  portly  figure, 
and  an  expression  spirituelle."  L.  E.  L.  said  that  she  was  "one  of  the 
few  people  she  quite  longed  to  meet  again." 

t  Her  brothers  Septimus  and  Octavius. 


256  Literature. 

to  keep  your  letters  back  with  the  seeds.  They  did  not  dar& 
to  wait  even  a  day  for  papa's  coming,  but  sent  it  at  once  to 
me,  double  as  it  was,  and  in  a  letter  of  Arabel's  own,  making 
a  triple  ;  and  those  "  discerners  of  spirits  "  at  the  post-office 
marked  it  (for  all  the  thick  paper)  a  single  letter — immortal 
essence  not  weighing  anything. 

I  can  tell  you  a  very  little  of  dear  Mr.  Kenyon.  I  have 
heard  indirectly  from  my  sister,  who  had  only  heard  of  his 
return  to  London.  His  poem  in  "  Finden  "  has  both  power 
and  sweetness,  and  I  have  heard  it  preferred,  though  without 
an  assent  on  my  own  part  to  such  a  preference,  to  his  last 
more  elaborate  contribution.  It  is,  however,  very  stirring  in 
some  parts,  and  liking  it  in  MS. — in  which  state  he  hardly 
allowed  me  to  see  it — I  like  it  still  better  now.  Is  not  your 
"  Aaron's  Daughter"  much  admired  ?  It  ought  to  be.  There 
is  a  half  -  playfulness  and  half- sentiment  which  touch  my 
fancy  just  where  it  lies  nearest  to  my  heart,  besides  the  prac- 
tical good-sefise  (perhaps  my  sin  may  be  to  care  something 
less  for  that)  which  Mr.  Kenyon  says  "  is  always  to  be  found 
in  Miss  Mitford's  writings,  in  the  very  midst  of  their  grace- 
fulness." Yes,  I  have  seen  some  kind  opinions  of  my  "  Ro- 
maunt "  in  the  Chronicle  and  elsewhere.  You  set  the  kind 
fashion  by  overpraising  it  j  and  indeed  the  stiff-  necked 
critics  must  have  caught  fresh  cold  not  to  be  able  to  bow 
their  necks  to  receive  a  tunic  from  your  hands. 

May  the  "  Pilgrim's  Rest "  as  constructed  be  worthy  of 
the  "  Pilgrim's  Rest "  as  composed.  There  must  be  a  "  meet- 
ing of  the  waters  "  in  their  brightness  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  that  wish. 

My  beloved  father  has  gone  away ;  he  was  obliged  to  go 
two  days  ago,  and  took  away  with  him,  I  fear,  almost  as  sad- 
dened spirits  as  he  left  with  me.  The  degree  of  amendment 
does  not,  of  course,  keep  up  with  the  haste  of  his  anxieties. 
It  is  not  that  I  am  not  better,  but  that  he  loves  me  too  well ; 
there  was  the  cause  of"  his  grief  in  going ;  and  it  is  not  that  I 
do  not  think  myself  better,  but  that  I  feel  how  dearly  he 
loves  me  ;  there  was  the  cause  of  my  grief  in  seeing  him  go. 
One  misses  so  the  presence  of  such  as  dearly  love  us.  His 
tears  fell  almost  as  fast  as  mine  did  when  we  parted,  but  he 


Mifs  Farren,  257 

is  coming  back  soon — perhaps  in  a  fortnight,  so  I  will  not 
think  any  more  oi  them,  but  oi  that.  I  never  told  him  of  it, 
of  course,  but,  when  I  was  last  so  ill,  I  used  to  start  out  of 
fragments  of  dreams,  broken  from  all  parts  of  the  universe, 
with  the  cry  from  my  own  lips,  "  Oh,  papa,  papa  !"  I  could 
not  trace  it  back  to  the  dream  behind,  yet  there  it  always 
was  very  curiously,  and  touchingly  too,  to  my  own  heart, 
seeming  scarcely  of  me,  though  it  came  from  me,  at  once 
waking  me  with,  and  welcoming  me  to,  the  old  straight  hu- 
manities. Well  I  but  I  do  trust  I  shall  not  be  ill  again  in 
his  absence,  and  that  it  may  not  last  longer  than  a  fort- 
night. 

Have  you  seen  the  "  Book  of  Beauty  ?"  There  is  in  it  a 
little  poem  very  sweet  and  touching,  the  production  of  Miss 
Farren,  a  young  lady  residing  in  this  place.  I  do  not  yet 
know  her  personally,  but  she  is  a  friend  of  Mr.  Landor  and 
Mr.  Kenyon,  and  I  have  heard  from  the  latter  high  estima- 
tion of  her  genius — it  was  the  word  used — and  accomplish- 
ments both  literary  and  musical.  She  has  been  very  kind 
in  sending  me  flowers  and  vegetables,  but  up  to  this  day  I 
have  scarcely  been  fit  for  a  stranger's  visit.  May  God  bless 
you !  Ever  dearest  Miss  Mitford's 

E.  B.  B. 

Mr.  Kenyon  is  frequently  mentioned  in  these  pages ;  his 
wife  was  a  kind  friend  to  the  Mitfords  in  their  early  pecu- 
niary embarrassments.  He  wrote  for  magazines,  and  sent 
his  book, "  The  Rhymed  Plea,"  to  Miss  Mitford  as  an  intro- 
duction. Several  poems  of  his  appeared  in  Lady  Blessing- 
ton's  "Keepsakes"  (1841-2-3),  and  one  in  Miss  Mitford's 
annual  ("  Finden's ")  for  1838.  But  he  was  principally 
known  as  a  brilliant  conversationalist,  a  genial  host,  and 
patron  of  literary  men.  At  his  house,  39  Devonshire  Place, 
he  gave  dinners  not  only  sumptuous  in  themselves,  but  such 
as  Addison  would  have  approved,  who  said  that  he  dined 
best  who  had  the  best  company.  Miss  Mitford  mentions 
her  having  met  at  his  house  Daniel  Webster,  Stanfield,  Ser- 
geant Goulbourn,  Milman,  Browning,  Procter,  Landor,  and 
Rogers.     He  was  a  great  friend  of  Wordsworth.     He  intro- 


258  Poetry  by  Mr,  Kenyan. 

duced  Miss  Mitford  to  Mr.  Fields  and  Daniel  Webster,  and 
also  to  Miss  Barrett.  Miss  Mitford  calls  him  "  the  most 
admired  and  courted  man  in  town,"  and  adds,  "  The  dinner 
is  made  that  has  Kenyon  as  a  guest." 

The  following  Anacreontic  by  Mr.  Kenyon  is  preserved 
among  Miss  Mitford's  papers  in  her  own  handwriting.  She 
says  that  he  caught  its  sparkle  from  a  glass  of  champagne, 
and  the  stanzas,  commenced  impromptu,  were  finished  verre 
en  mai?t. 

Champagne  Rose. 

Lilies  on  liquid  roses  floating, 
So  floats  yon  foam  on  pink  champagne ; 

Would  I  could  join  that  pleasant  boating, 
And  prove  the  shining  main, 

Floating  away  on  wine. 

"  Trust  not,"  the  graybeards  say,  "  beware !" 
Whose  sea-shore  is  the  goblet's  brim, 

And  true  it  is  it  drowns  old  Care, 
But  what  care  we  for  him, 

Floating  away  on  wine. 

And  true  it  is  they  part  in  pain 

Who  sober  cross  the  Stygian  ferry, 
But  only  make  the  Styx  champagne. 

And  we  shall  cross  right  merry,  - 
Floating  away  on  wine. 

Old  Charon's  self  shall  make  him  mellow, 

And  gayly  row  his  bark  from  shore. 
While  we  and  every  jovial  fellow 

Hear  undisturbed  the  oar, 

Dipping  itself  in  wine. 

Miss  Barrett  dedicated  "  Aurora  Leigh  "  to  Mr.  Kenyon, 
and  says  that  her  "Dead  Pan"  was  suggested  by  his  para- 
phrase of  Schiller's  poem. 

Miss  Mitford  had  read  Mrs.  Opie's  "  Simple  Tales  "when 
she  was  twenty-three  years  of  age,  and  in  1810  she  mentions 
Miss  Edgeworth,  Miss  Baillie,  and  Mrs.  Opie  as  "  three  such 
women  as  have  seldom  adorned  one  age  and  country." 
Afterwards  Mrs.  Opie  joined  the  Society  of  Friends,  and 
Miss  Mitford  speaks  of  her  as  "  that  excellent  and  ridiculous 
person — "     "  Mrs.  Opie  is  Quakerized  all  over,  and  calls 


Mrs.  Opie.  259 

Mr.  Haydon  Friend  Benjamin."  But  Miss  Mitford  says  she 
mixed  gay  society  with  May  meetings,  and  towards  the  end 
of  her  life  she  came  twenty  miles  to  see  Miss  Mitford,  and 
was  "one  of  the  nicest  and  quietest  old  women  possible. 
She  is  literally  z.  friend  to  me."  * 

Mrs.  Opie  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Norwich,  nth  mo.,  28th,  1838. 

What  can  my  dear,  kind,  admirable  friend  have  thought 
of  my  ungrateful  delay  in  thanking  her  for  a  beautiful  gift 
(which,  by-the-bye,  malgre  elle^  I  do  not  intend  to  keep,  ex- 
cept for  a  time,  and  for  reasons  and  feelings  unconquerable — 
more  of  that  hereafter) ! 

But,  culprit  though  I  seem,  I  have  some  excuses  to  plead  ; 
first,  absence  from  liome  ;  secondly,  confinement  to  my  room 
when  at  home,  and  then  the  lovely  book  was  too  precious  and 
pretty  to  be  turned  over ;  and,  thirdly,  a  still  longer  confine- 
ment, and  literally  to  my  sofa  or  bed,  just  as  I  had  begun  to 
open  and  read  and  admire. 

Two  days  ago,  however,  I  contrived  to  read  the  book 
through,  and  I  found  my  tale  appeared  to  more  advantage 
than  I  expected.  I  marvel  much  at  the  admirable  skill  with, 
which  thou  hast  contrived  to  extract  all  that  was  necessary 
to  conduct  the  story,  and  make  strong,  therefore  (as  such  a 
thing  could  be  made),  what  I  had  made  weak.  The  talent 
of  compression  is  a  great  one.  The  design  I  wrote  to  is  the 
best  save  one  in  the  collection,  in  my  opinion ;  but  I  do 
wonder  that  such  a  superior  writer  as  thyself,  one  who  has 
so  high  a  name,  should  condescend  to  write  to  a  design 
given.  (The  other  names  are  comparatively  unknown.) 
Dear  friend,  it  seems  to  me  such  a  mistake  to  have  tales  in 
verse  so  unreasonably  long,  and -in  measure  unfit  for  tales ; 
and  prose  tales  so  fatally  short — in  a  tale,  story  is  almost 
everything,  and  no  story  can  be  really  good  that  is  not  long 
enough  to  allow  of  the  reader's  being  interested  in  the  fate 
of  the  actors.     The  "  Soeur  de  la  Charitd"  has  evidently 


*  She  was  the  wife  of  the  celebrated  painter  who  was  introduced  to 
the  world  by  "  I'etcr  Pindar." 


26o  ^'Finden's  Tableaux." 

been  so  curtailed  that  the  catastrophe  is  by  no  means  clear. 
It  can  only  be  understood  by  tale-writers  that  the  Count 
was  the  radical  turn  of  the  matter,  and,  therefore,  the  girl 
ought  not  to  marry  him;  but  I  read  it  more  than  once  be- 
fore I  made  it  out.     This  was  not  Chorley's  fault. 

I  understand  and  like  thy  "  Buccaneer,"  and  think  there 
are  sweet  lines  and  real  poetry  in  the  first  poem;  but  the 
story  on  once  reading  I  could  not  understand.  I  may  in  the 
second  reading.  Indeed  thy  contributors  none  of  them  write 
with  thy  perspicuity,  and,  like  Mungo  in  the  farce,  I  say, 
"  How  can  me  like  what  me  no  understand?"  But  the  book 
is  a  beautiful  book,  and,  but  for  the  true  love  and  fealty  I 
owe  thee,  I  could  not  find  fault,  but  I  think  the  task  beneath 
thee,  and  to  thee  it  is  waste  of  time. 

I  was  in  hopes  that  increase  of  income  would  have  en- 
abled thee  to  break  from  publishers'  trammels,  in  which  I 
can't  bear  to  fancy  thee ;  but  thou  art  the  best  judge  of  thy 
own  requirings  and  wishes,  and  I  ask  thy  excuse  humbly  for 
having  said  what  I  have  done.  The  head  and  expression 
of  the  frontispiece  I  think  exquisite,  and  the  face  is,  and  even 
the  look,  like  our  young  Queen.     Was  it  meant  to  be  so  ? 

Thou  art  quite  welcome  to  keep  my  mauvais  pas,2is  long 
as  it  can  be  useful  to  thee ;  how  rejoiced  I  should  be  to  find 
it  had  been  the  means  of  good  to  thee  in  any  way ! 

Many  thanks  for  thy  seeds;  how  proud  and  pleased  I 
shall  be  to  see  them  grow  and  flourish  ! 

Oh  yes !  I  do  love  geraniums,  and  should  like  to  rival 
thee  in  them. 

This  is  my  second  letter  to  thee.  One  I  wrote  some  days 
ago,  and  burnt  it,  because  I  did  not  like  it.  Then  I  had 
read  only  the  three  first  articles.  They  will  all  be  read  again. 
Thine  I  much  like,  all  of  them. 

What  an  interesting,  but  queer,  unsatisfactory  book  is 
"Charles  Lamb's  Life  and  Letters,"  by  Sergeant  Talfourdl 
How  imperfect  must  that  biography  be,  however  well  written, 
in  which  the  writer  \s,  forced,  by  delicacy  and  consideration 
for  the  feelings  of  the  living,  to  conceal  the  awful  marking 
event  which  must  have  influenced  the  whole  life  and  char- 
acter of  his  hero !     Thou  art  aware,  probably,  that  the  sister 


Charles  Lamb.  261 

was  insane,  and  the  frequent  inmate  of  a  madhouse,  but  she 
had  lucid  intervals,  and  then  returned  home.  In  one  of 
these,  in  Charles  Lamb's  presence,  she,  while  at  dinner, 
stabbed  her  mother,  and  she  died  on  the  spot !  'l\\\^fact  I 
had  from  Coleridge  himself !  Nor  was  there  ever  a  more 
miserable,  wretched  pair  than  this  poor  brother  and  sister. 
I  mean  a  more  wretched  pair  of  innocent  sufferers.  But  in 
the  life  there  is  no  allusion  to  these  facts. 

It  is,  however,  evident  that  the  poor  dear  man  was  not 
right  in  his  mind.  An  affecting  vein  of  madness  went,  I 
think,  through  all  he  wrote  and  said — but  the  letters  are 
worth  reading. 

To-morrow  I  shall  have  leave  from  my  surgeon  to  go 
down  into  my  drawing-room.  I  have  been  in  my  room  near 
a  fortnight  with  rheumatic  inflammation  of  the  knee-joint, 
which  I  hurt  when  three  years  of  age  by  a  fall,  and  so,  that 
being  my  weakest  part  (next  to  my  head),  cold  flies  thither, 
and  settles  there. 

Farewell !     I  hear  a  nay,  and  expect  callers. 

Thy  obliged  and  loving  friend.  Always  greetings  to  thy 
papa.  A.  Opie. 

The  allusion  at  the  commencement  of  the  foregoing  letter 
is  to  Mrs.  Opie's  contribution  to  "  Finden's  Tableaux." 
Miss  Mitford  succeeded  Mrs.  Hall  as  editor  of  that  fashion- 
able annual.  The  first  volume  under  her  auspices  (1838) 
was  dedicated  to  Lady  Dacre,  and  contained  contributions 
from  Mary  Howitt,  Miss  Barrett,  and  Mr.  Kenyon.  To  the 
next  volume,  1839,  Mrs.  Opie  contributed. 

Miss  Barrett  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Monday,  Dec.  3,  1838. 
You  DEAREST  Miss  MiTFORD, — To-day  was  the  day  fixed 
in  my  mind  for  writing  to  you,  even  if  I  had  not  heard  from 
you  yesterday.  I  thought  I  would  wait  one  day  more,  and 
then  write,  and  in  the  meantime  went  on  building  my  Bas- 
tile  in  the  air  about  your  unusual  silence.  And  do  you 
know,  dearest  Miss  Mitford,  the  truth  came  to  me  among 
my  fancies.     I  fiincied  that  some  illness,  and  of  one  dearest 


262  Literary  Disappomtments. 

to  you,  kept  you  silent.  It  was  such  a  relief  to  read  the  first 
page  of  your  letter,  and  such  a  sad  confirmation  to  turn  to 
the  second.  Well,  the  evil  has  passed  now.  May  the 
shadow  of  it  be  kept  from  your  path  for  very  long.  While  it 
is,  other  shadows  will  fall  lightly,  and  may  be  trodden  upon 
by  a  light  and,  some  of  them,  by  a  very  scorning  foot. 

My  scorn — really  indignation  is  too  good  a  word  for  such 
a  subject — unites  itself  to  yours  as  closely  as  all  my  sympa- 
thies do  to  you  in  regard  to  every  detail  of  your  most  interest- 
ing letter.  I  am  most  astonished.  Can  "  high-toned  "  instru- 
ments be  strung  with  such  cracked  wires?  That  j'^«  should 
pay,  and  he  '■'■seem  to  pay."  Yes  !  and  seem  to  be  a  poet  be- 
sides! I  Upon  which  there  comes  into  my  head  a  saying  of 
Plato.  I  had  thought  before  that  it  ought  to  come  nowhere, 
albeit  Plato's,  "Poets  speak  nobly ^  but  understand  not  what 
they  speak."  I  feel  sorry.  It  is  disappointing  to  be  thrust 
aside  from  our  estimation  of  any  person.  I  have  been  ac- 
customed to  associate  certain  noblenesses  with  certain  in- 
tellectualities. And  although  I  never  dared  quite  to  use  the 
words  of  your  prophecy,  "  He  will  be  a  great  poet,"  on  ac- 
count of  the  present  want  of  v/hat  you  call  vividness,  and  I 
the  power  of  conception,  both  of  us  referring"  to  the  same 
deficiency,  the  one  to  the  effect,  and  the  other  to  the  cause, 
yet  I  did  see  in  him  a  poet,  and  expect  from  him  more  than 
this. 

And  you  think  others  capable  of  this  besides !  Don't  let 
us  say  so  till  the  experience  comes.  At  any  rate,  dear  Miss 
Mitford,  I  am  unwilling  to  base  the  suspicion  upon  the 
ground  of  literary  pursuits,  small  or  great.  Human  nature 
is  surely  a  better  ground  than  poetical  nature,  and  may  it 
not  be  very  true  that  the  low  opinion  you  have  been  led  to 
form  of  a  certain  class  of  minds  may  have  arisen  from  the 
circumstance,  the  accidental  circumstance,  of  your  seeing 
those  minds  in  a  closer  relation  to  their  vanities  and  inter- 
ests than  other  minds,  and  also  by  naturally  expecting  some- 
thing better  from  such  minds,  and  also  by  necessarily,  how- 
ever unconsciousl}',  comparing  what  you  )''ourself  think  and 
do  in  similar  situations,  and  that  is  always  generously  and 
nobly.     I   am  afraid   that  human  nature  is  corrupt  every- 


tiynipatliy.  263 

where.  I  hope  it  is  not  most  so  where  corruption  is  most 
"without  excuse." 

But  I  am  thinking,  as  I  ought  and  must,  more  of  you,  my 
beloved  friend,  than  of  any  of  those  people.  I  cling  to  the 
hope  that  although  Mr.  Tilt  may  be  irritated  into  incivilities 
towards  you — and  abominable  it  is  that  he  should — he  is  too 
wise  a  man  to  sacrifice  his  interests  to  his  ill-humor,  and 
lose  your  editorship  of  his  annual  just  for  the  sake  of  annoy- 
ing you.  But,  however  it  may  be,  as  you  think  it  worth  while 
to  put  the  question  (and,  while  you  put  it,  I  do  trust  you 
were  quite  certain  what  the  answer  will  \>€),yoii  may  make 
whatever  use  of  me  you  please,  as  long"  as  I  am  alive,  and  able 
to  write  at  all.  I  hope  if  he,  Mr.  Tilt,  ventured  to  dismiss 
you,  he  would  pay  me  the  compliment  of  forgetting  my  ex- 
istence altogether,  but,  whichever  way  it  is,  "  foul  me  fall  " 
as  a  minstrel,  if  I  serve  liege  ladye  in  "  Finden's  Tableaux" 
except  your  own  self;  therefore  do  not  wrong  my  fealty.  .  .  . 

Of  dear  Mr.  Kenyon  I  have  heard  more  from  you  than 
from  any  one  since  his  return.  My  sister  had  seen  him,  and 
papa  was  going  to  see  him.  I  had  heard  nothing  of  his  do- 
ings and  enjoyments  abroad  from  either.  And  so  he  won't 
have  anything  to  say  to  our  narrative  poetry  in  Finden  ? 
But  he  is  a  heretic,  therefore  we  won't  mind.  After  all,  I 
am  afraid  (since  it  displeases  you)  that  what  I  myself  de- 
light in  most,  in  narrative  poetry,  is  not  the  narrative. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  strip  them  to  their  plots,  make  them 
your  own  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  you  take  away  their 
glory.  Alfieri  is  more  markedly  a  poet  of  action  than  any 
other  poet  I  can  think  of,  and  how  he  makes  you  shiver ! 
Mr,  Wordsworth  told  me  that  he  could  read  him  only  once. 

Is  there  much  "heresy"  in  all  this?  Forgive  it,  if  there 
be. 

Little  thinks  the  bishop,  whose  right  reverend  autograph 
conveys  my  letter  to  you,  that  he  is  aiding  and  abetting  the 
intercourse  of  such  very  fierce  radicals.  Indeed,  the  last 
time  I  thought  of  politics,  I  believe  I  was  a  republican,  to 
say  nothing  of  some  perilous  stuff  of  "sectarianism,"  which 
would  freeze  his  ecclesiastical  blood  to  hear  of.  My  uncle 
and  aunt  know  him  very  well,  and  that  way  came  my  frank. 


264  Mr.  Kenyan. 

Were  omens  busy  around  him,  that  he  made  such  great 
haste  and  brevity  about  the  name  oi your  village?  Do  ob- 
serve the  direction. 

Miss  Barrett  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Torquay,  Jan.  5,  1839. 

You  DEAREST  Miss  MiTFORD, — I  do  thank  you,  my  be- 
loved friend,  for  your  kindness  in  making  me  a  partaker  of 
your  gladness.  I  wish  all  happiness  to  both  of  you — to  you 
and  dear  Dr.  Mitford — gratefully  responding  to  your  wishes 
to  me  on  the  occasion  of  this  putting  on  of  Dan  Time's  new 
doublet.  They  have  come  true  already,  iox  papa  has  come. 
May  mine  for  you  come  true  as  truly — may  God  keep  you 
both  from  January  to  January,  and  grant  that  you  may  have 
and  feel  no  less  occasion  to  look  gladly  on  each  other  than 
we  all  have  to  look  thankfully  up  to  him !  I  may  send  my 
love  and  earnest  wishes  to  Dr.  Mitford — now  may  I  not? 

Papa  says  that  Mr.  Kenyon  is  out,  and  looking  very  well, 
but  a  letter  from  my  sister  tells  me  that,  when  she  saw  him 
last  in  Wimpole  Street,  his  spirits  did  not  appear  to  be  as 
animated  as  usual,  and  I  don't  like  hearing  Mr.  Harness's 
report  of  him.  It  must  be  that  the  life  he  leads  will  tell  at 
last,  and  at  least,  on  his  spirits.  Only  the  unexcitable  by 
nature  can  be  supposed  to  endure  continual  external  occa- 
sions of  excitement.  As  if  there  were  not  enough — too  much 
that  is  exciting y^/^  within.  For  my  own  part,  I  can't  un- 
derstand the  craving  for  excitement.  Mine  is  for  repose. 
My  conversion  into  quietism  might  be  attained  without  much 
preaching,  and,  indeed,  all  my  favorite  passages  in  the  Holy 
Scriptures  are  those  which  express  and  promise  peace,  such 
as,  "The  Lord  of  peace  himself  give  you  peace  always  and 
by  all  means,"  "  My  peace  I  give  you,  not  as  the  world  giveth 
give  I,"  and  "He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep" — all  such  pas- 
sages. They  strike  upon  the  disquieted  earth  with  such  a 
foreignness  of  heavenly  music  —  surely  the  "variety,"  the 
change,  is  to  be  unexcited,  to  find  a  silence  and  a  calm  in 
the  midst  of  thoughts  and  feelings  given  to  be  too  turbulent. 

My  beloved  friend,  how  very  glad  must  be  j'our  gladness 
to  watch,  as  I  trust  you  are  doing,  the  return  of  health  to 


L.  E.  L.  265 

your  dear  invalid — the  dearer  for  the  thought  of  what  "  might 
have  been  " — day  after  day,  and  to  feel  in  the  respect  and 
attachment  demonstrated  so  affectingly  around  you  that  there 
is  a  sympathy  for  your  gladness  as  well  as  your  fearing  grief. 
But  still  I  am  anxious  for  you ;  I  am  anxious  lest  your  past 
and  present  fatigues  should  prove  presently  too  great  for 
you,  and  that,  when  the  exultation  of  joy  has  subsided,  this 
proving  may  begin.  Do  be  careful,  and  do  not,  at  any  time 
you  have  thirty-six  letters  to  write,  write  a  thirty-seventh  to 
me.  I  am  very  thankful  for  the  frequent  accounts  you  have 
sent  me,  yet  if  they  helped  to  tire  you — oh,  don't  let  me  tire 
you  ever,  dearest  Miss  Mitford,  pray  do  not. 

And  this  suggests  a  termination  to  my  letter. 

I  must,  however,  say  how  sorry  and  glad  papa  has  been 
with  you  through  the  late  changes.  The  patience  and  the 
s'Aq.wq.q  for  your  sake,  the  love  stronger  than  pain,  they  are 
beautiful  to  hear  of,  and  very  touching  they  must  have  been 
to  you. 

Poor  L.  E.  L. !  You  will  have  been,  as  I  was,  startled  and 
saddened  to  hear  the  sudden  news.  I  had  a  prophet  in  my 
thoughts  about  her  ever  since  she  went  away.  It  is  a  fatal 
climate,  and  the  longest  years  do  not  seem  to  go  to  the  lives 
of  poetesses.     Did  you  know  her  personally  at  all  ?  * 

Good-bye,  dearest  Miss  Mitford.      The  cream  shall  be 
with  Dr.  Mitford's  coffee  as  soon  as  possible. 
Your  ever  attached, 

Elizabeth  Barrett. 

P.S. — I  am  tolerably  well  just  now,  and  all  the  better  for 
the  sight  of  papa.  He  arrived  the  day  before  yesterday,  and 
I  must  remember  him  to  you,  although  he  is  out  walking,  and 
cannot  authorize  me  to  intrude  upon  you  in  that  way. 

Mrs.  Opie  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Jan.  24,  1839. 
My  dear  and  Excellent  Friend, — I  felt  a  strong  im- 
pulse, that  of  affectionate  sympathy  and  admiration,  to  write 

*  Miss  Mitford  says  L.  E.  I.,  was  "  a  fine  creature  thrown  away." 

\2 


266  Dr.  Mitford's  Illness. 

to  thee  immediately  on  receipt  of  thy  last  letter,  which  touched 
many  a  responsive  chord  of  filial  suffering  in  my  heart,  but  I 
forbore  because  I  expected  to  write  to  thee  soon,  in  order  to 
acknowledge  the  receipt  of  the  books.  These  books  did  not 
reach  me  till  this  morning,  and  I  hasten  to  perform  the  long- 
desired  duty;  indeed,  before  I  rose  this  morning,  I  was 
thinking  much  of  thee,  and  wishing  to  write  to  thee,  when 
lo !  the  welcome  parcel  appeared,  and  here  I  am  pen  in 
hand.  Besides  the  interesting  ascent  which  I  devoured  at 
and  with  my  breakfast,  I  received  a  volume  of  poems,  with 
a  very  polite  note,  from  Mr.  Kenyon.  I  glanced  my  eye 
over  the  book,  and  was  so  much  pleased  with  what  I  saw 
that  I  resolved  not  to  acknowledge  the  receipt,  and  thank 
him,  till  I  had  read  it  through,  as  I  felt  sure  that  I  should  be 
much  gratified  by  the  perusal,  and  could  give  sincere  and 
heartfelt  praise.  I  delight  in  that  sweet  boy's  artless  narra- 
tion. It  is  unique  in  its  manner,  and  I  intend  to  lend  it  to 
the  taker  oi  mauvais pas  and  his  wife.  The  bishop  amused 
himself  and  me  the  other  day  at  the  palace  with  fancying 
himself  introduced  on  the  stage,  and  Enter,  the  Bishop  of 
Norwich.  However,  of  that  there  never  was  any  fear,  and 
thou  mayest  certainly  use  the  little  story  if  it  suit  thee. 

Now  to  a  graver  subject,  thy  dear  father's  illness  and  dan- 
ger. Merciful,  dear  friend,  is  always  the  hand  that  tries  us 
— more  graciously  merciful  that  which  supports  us  under 
trial,  and  then  changes  our  pain  into  thankfulness  and  joy ! 
Long  may  thy  beloved  parent  be  spared  to  thee,  and  I  be- 
lieve this  prolongation  of  his  life  to  be  not  only  for  his  own 
sake,  and  on  account  of  the  love  which  thou  bearest  him, 
but  because  the  longer  he  lives  the  greater  opportunity  is 
given  to  thee  to  shine  as  a  pattern  of  filial  piety,  and  to 
prove  a  bright  example  to  other  children.  Filial  obedience 
is  not  the  marking  feature  of  the  present  day,  far  from  it,  and 
I  turn  from  many  painful  instances  of  filial  ingratitude  and 
want  oi  reverential  duty  to  contemplate  with  respectful  affec- 
tion the  perfection  of  filial  piety  and  reverential  love  in  Mary 
Russell  Mitford.  I  fear  that  sweet  western  flower,  thy  charm- 
ing bard,  will  not  recover,  but  while  there  is  life  there  is  hope. 
I  am  out,  but  not  able  to  walk  up  and  down  stairs  much  with- 


L.  E.  L.  267 

out  my  knees  grumbling  a  little,  but  I  have  thankfully  to  ac- 
knowledge that  my  health  is  perfect  How  kind  it  is  in  thy 
friends  to  be  so  bountiful  to  one !  but  it  is  for  thy  sake,  and 
I  thank  thee  as  well  as  them.  Oh,  that  poor  L.  E,  L. ! 
Didst  thou  know  her?  WTien  will  the  mystery  attending  her 
death  be  cleared  up  ?  Emma  Roberts  writes  me  word  that 
she  did  not  destroy  herself^  but  something  or  some  one  must 
have  done  it ;  she  thinks  she  ruptured  something  in  the  brain, 
but  how  violent  must  the  emotion  have  been  that  caused  it ! 
Dr.  A.  T.  Thompson  declares  a  -chemist  said  they  gave  her 
no  prussic  acid.  On  the  first  of  next  month  her  faithful 
friend  Blanchard's  memoir  is  coming  out.  That  is  a  difficult 
thing  to  write  under  such  circumstances.  I  met  L.  E.  L.  at 
Mrs.  Hall's,  and  I  have  always  felt  an  anxious  interest  in 
her  from  the  conviction  she  had  strong  feelings,  not  under 
the  only  safe  control — that  of  religious  principle.  Farewell  I 
Thy  ever  attached,  obliged,  and  loving  friend, 

A.  Opie. 

The  next  letter  was  written  by  Lady  Dacre  shortly  after 
the  death  of  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Sullivan,  who  was  an  ac- 
complished person  and  an  authoress. 

Lady  Dacre  to  Miss  Mitford. 

The  Hoo,  Feb.  13, 1839. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Although  I  am  not  yet  equal 
to  answering  the  many  kind  letters  of  friends  who  grieve 
with  me,  and  Lord  Dacre,  with  his  usual  immeasurable  kind- 
ness, has  hitherto  taken  all  such  things  off  my  hands,  I  will 
thank  you  myself  fox  your  very  gratifying  few  lines. 

The  testimony  of  such  an  one  as  you,  both  to  her  talents 
and  private  virtues  (so  eminent  in  both  as  you  are),  is  worth 
having,  and,  in  the  midst  of  my  desolation,  was  a  soothing 
balm.  !My  mother's  pride  glories  in  her  still,  and  the  very 
recollections  which  aggravate  my  loss  alle\nate  it.  I  could 
almost  wish  so  just  and  true  and  elegant  a  testimony  to 
her  literary  merits  could  be  seen  and  known  by  all  who 
knew  her.  To  think  how  soon  every  trace  of  so  much 
merit  will  be  effaced  from  all  but  our  own  minds  is  painful 


268  Death  of  Mrs.  Sullivan. 

to  poor  human  vanit}',  though  it  ought  not  to  be  so  when 
one  knows  where  her  much  higher  virtues  are  recorded,  and 
are  now  receiving  their  reward. 

My  head  is  very  much  confused,  so  I  will  merely  dwell 
on  matters  of  fact,  and  tell  you  her  deeply  affected  husband 
(who  had  nursed  her  night  and  day  for  many  months  with 
unremitting  tenderness)  was  persuaded  to  come  to  us  yes- 
terday, and  we  have  all  the  children  here.  We  shall  keep 
them  a  week,  and  then  I  shall  go  back  with  them  to  their 
melancholy  home,  Lord  D.  being  obliged  to  go  to  London. 

I  never  saw  grief  like  my  poor  Frederick's,  but  it  is  tem- 
pered with  such  deep  and  heartfelt  piety  that  I  do  not  de- 
spair of  seeing  him  one  day  resigned  and  cheerful.  The 
dear,  good,  well-trained  children  will  be  a  resource  and  com- 
fort to  him.  As  for  me,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  I  have  the  best 
of  husbands  still  left  me,  whose  evening  of  life  I  must  not 
darken;  and  these  children  also  to  live  for,  if  I  can.  How 
I  am  to  do  so  I  can  scarcely  imagine  now,  but  as  it  can  be 
but  for  a  very  few  years,  I  must  think  of  them,  and  not  of 
myself.  I  possessed  my  treasure  forty-two  years.  Ought  I 
not  to  be  all  gratitude?  and  gratitude  does  preponderate 
greatly. 

I  am  a  brute  for  saying  nothing  of  your  affliction  and  its 
happy  removal,  but  grief  is  very  selfish;  I  cannot  think  any 
loss  ever  equalled  ours,  and  yet  how  many  blessings  have 
we  left ! 

Thank  you,  thank  you  for  your  letter,  and  all  good  attend 
you.     With  sincere  esteem  and  regard, 

Ever  yours,  B.  Dacre. 

Miss  Mitford  solicited  poetical  contributions  for  "  Finden's 
Tableaux"  from  the  well-known  Mr.  Procter  —  "Barry 
Cornwall." 

B.  W.  Procter  to  Miss  Mitford. 
5  Grove  End  Place,  St.  John's  Wood,  June  13,  1839. 
My  dear  Madam, — If  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  pa'-'^ic- 
ularize  the  sort  of  poem  you  wish  to  have  for  your  annual,  I 
will  try  to  find  something  that  may  suit  it.     What  is  to  be 


'■'■Barry  Cornwall."  269 

illustratod?  What  is  the  subject  or  subjects  (supposing  one 
may  choose  out  of  several)  ?  And  what  length  is  the  poem 
to  run  ?  If  you  have  no  fixed  subjects,  what  is  the  general 
tenor  to  be — /.  e.,  is  it  to  consist  of  romance,  or  what  else  ? 

Should  I  be  able  to  find  anything  in  the  shape  of  rhyme 
that,  with  a  little  extension  or  alteration,  will  do,  it  shall  be 
at  your  service;  but  I  am  afraid  of  promising  anything,  un- 
less I  have  some  raw  material  by  me.  I  am  so  out  of  the 
habit  of  scribbling  anything  but  law  that  rhyme  is  now  more 
difficult  than  reason  to  me.  And  I  have  many  professional 
engagements  on  hand  that  must  be  attended  to,  and  which 
will  absorb  all  my  hours  for  some  time  to  come. 

But  you  will,  I  am  sure,  be  satisfied  that,  if  I  say  I  cannot 
do  anything,  I  am  really  unable  to  do  anything.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  I  can,  )'ou  shall  have  it  without  further  apology. 

I  have  just  met  (at  Mr.  Kenyon's)  Daniel  Webster,  the 
famous  American  orator.  He  has  a  broad,  strongly  marked 
brow,  with  a  dark,  deep-set  eye  that  looks  full  of  intelligence 
and  vigor.  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  encountered  a 
man  whose  looks  struck  me  so  much.  He  is  a  little  cold 
in  his  manner  (like  most  of  his  countrymen  in  general),  but 
it  is  not  offensive.  It  is  rather  a  grave  self-possession  than 
superciliousness.  I  did  not  hear  much,  but  with  the  ther- 
mometer at  99°  in  the  shade  one  cannot  take  any  nice  ob- 
servations. 

I  hope  that  your  geraniums  flourish,  and  that  you  are 
meditating  something  for  the  press  (I  mean  after  you  have 
completed  your  annual).  My  wife  begs  to  be  kindly  re- 
membered to  you. 

Believe  me  to  be,  dear  madam, yours  very  faithfully, 

B.  W.  Procter. 

Miss  Mitford  writes:  " Sweet,  gentle  'Barry  Cornwall' 
mixed  with  the  choicest  spirits  of  London  society."  She 
says  that  Procter  assumed  this  pseudonym  fearing  lest  his 
poetical  ventures  might  injure  him  in  his  solicitor's  business. 


279  Mifs  Sedgwick. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Miss  Sedgwick's  Visit  to  England. — Letiers  from  Miss  Sedgwick, 
Mrs.  Howitt,  Mrs.  Hofland,  and  Mrs.  Opie. 

Miss  Sedgwick's  acquaintance  with  Miss  Mitford,  which 
had  been  commenced  and  so  long  carried  on  by  corre- 
spondence, was  about  a  year  before  this  time  cemented  by 
a  visit  of  the  American  authoress's  brother  and  nephew,  who 
passed  ten  days  with  the  Mitfords.  In  1839  Miss  Sedg- 
wick landed  in  Portsmouth,  and  immediately,  before  going 
to  London,  went  to  call  on  Miss  Mitford  at  Three  Mile 
Cross.  Miss  Mitford  found  her  "a  very  nice  person  indeed." 
Miss  Sedgwick  gives  the  following  account  of  her  visit  to 
Miss  Mitford : 

June  13,  1339. — I  had  written  to  Miss  Mitford  my  inten- 
tion of  passing  the  evening  with  her,  and  as  we  approached 
her  residence,  which  is  in  a  small  village  near  Reading,  I 
began  to  feel  a  little  tremulous  about  meeting  my  "unknown 
friend."  Captain  Hall  had  made  us  all  merry  with  antici- 
pating the  usual  denouement  of  a  mere  epistolary  acquaint- 
ance.  Our  coachman  (who,  after  telling  him  that  we  were 
Americans,  had  complimented  us  on  speaking  English,  and 
"very  good  English  too")  professed  an  acquaintance  of 
some  twenty  years'  standing  with  Miss  M.,  and  assured  us 
that  she  was  one  of  the  "  dearest  women  in  England,"  and 
the  doctor  (her  father)  an  "'earty  old  boy."*  And  when 
he  reined  his  horses  up  at  her  door,  and  she  appeared  to 
receive  us,  he  said,  "  Now  you  would  not  take  that  little 
body  there  for  the  great  author,  would  you  ?"  and  certainly 
we  should  have  taken  her  for  nothing  more  than  a  kindly 
gentlewoman,  who  had  never  gone  beyond  the  narrow  sphere 

*  Miss  Mitford  resented  this  description  of  her  father,  and  in  the  next 
edition  Miss  Sedgwick  substituted  "  a  fine  old  gentleman." 


Mifs  Sedgwick.  271 

of  the  most  refined  social  life.  My  foolish  misgivings  were 
forgotten  in  her  cordial  welcome.  Miss  M.  is  truly  a  "little 
body,"  and  dressed  a  little  quaintly,  and  as  unlike  as  possi- 
ble to  the  faces  we  have  seen  of  her  in  the  magazines,  which 
all  have  a  broad  humor  bordering  on  coarseness.  She  has 
a  pale  gray,  soul-lit  eye,  and  hair  as  white  as  snow;  a  win- 
try sign  that  has  come  prematurely  upon  her,  as  like  signs 
come  upon  us,  while  the  year  is  yet  fresh  and  undecayed. 
Her  voice  has  a  sweet,  low  tone,  and  her  manner  a  natural 
frankness  and  affectionateness  that  we  have  been  so  long 
familiar  with  in  their  other  modes  of  manifestation  that  it 
would  have  been  indeed  a  disappointment  not  to  have  found 
them. 

Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford. 

London,  July  7, 1839. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — ^\Vhat  a  pleasure  it  is  now  to 
begin  my  note  to  the  personification  of  all  those  qualities  I 
have  loved  in  my  unknown  friend  —  to  have  your  image 
realized. 

The  evening  we  had  the  happiness  to  pass  with  you  was 
one  of  the  most  interesting  of  my  life,  and  because  I  have 
had  so  much  to  say  about  it,  I  have  as  yet  said  nothing  ! 
But  you  know  what  London  is,  and  how  it  devours — and, 
besides  present  duties,  I  have  an  insatiable  home  correspon- 
dence. This  is  to  justify  myself — not  to  justify  you.  My 
dear  Miss  Mitford,  you  are  so  like  what  I  expected,  and  yet 
so  different,  that  there  is  a  strange  blending  of  the  familiar 
with  the  novel.  I  am  sure  that  we  should  have  many  points 
of  sympathy  that  are  not  general ;  for  example,  I  do  so  hate 
being  considered  as  an  author.  My  being  so  was  so  per- 
fectly accidental,  so  contrary  to  my  tastes  and  habits.  When- 
ever a  person  to  whom  I  am  introduced  begins  with  an 
initiatory  sentence  about  my  books,  I  feel  as  if  cold  water 
were  thrown  in  my  face.  I  have  not  yet  got  familiar  with 
my  name  in  print ;  it  always  seems  to  me  as  if  that  Miss 
Sedgwick  was  quite  an  individual  independent  of  myself 
But  how  has  the  wish  to  prove  my  resemblance  to  you  led 
me  into  this  flood  of  egotism } 

Pray  excuse  my  retaining  Willis's  book  so  long.     It  was 


2/2  London  Friends. 

merely  because  I  had  not  time  to  write  even  a  note  to  you. 
I  send  with  it  a  piece  of  utility,  which  is  entirely  unadapted 
to  you,  but  you  may  find  some  one  among  your  humble 
friends  to  whom  it  may  be  acceptable. 

I  wish  I  could  tell  you  how  much  I  have  been  delighted 
with  your  friends  Harness  and  Kenyon — so  alike  in  essen- 
tials, so  strongly  individualized — Harness  has  the  kindliness 
of  Uncle  Toby,  and  Kenyon  the  benevolence  of  Pickwick,* 
and  those  qualities  showing  off  well  in  polished  and  intel- 
lectual life.  I  have  much  to  say  to  you  of  London.  It  has 
afforded  me  infinite  amusement.  I  am  ashamed  to  send  you 
this,  but  you  will  forgive  it.  Present  my  respects  to  your 
dear  father,  my  homage  to  the  geraniums,  and  pray  keep  my 
love  to  yourself.  Yours  truly,  C.  Sedgwick. 

Mrs.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Esher,  Jan.  8,  1840. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  was  quite  in  hopes  that  be- 
fore I  wrote  to  you  I  should  have  had  the  pleasure  of  mak- 
ing acquaintance  with  your  warm-hearted  friend,  Mrs.  Price, 
to  whom,  through  you,  we  are  indebted  for  a  charming  letter 
and  most  opportune  present  of  German  books.  I  do  not 
know  when  anything  gave  me  more  pleasure  than  the  com- 
ing in  of  those  books.  It  really  was  like  a  little  bit  of  en- 
chantment, for  they  came  at  the  very  moment  when  we  were 
saying,  "We  have  read  all  our  books  ;•  what  shall  we  do  for 
something  new  and  easy  to  read  ?"  We  have  to  thank  you 
also  for  putting  us  in  the  way  of  another  acquaintance,  which 
to  my  feeling  promises  very  agreeably — I  mean  Mr.  Martin. 
We  have  a  perfect  vision  of  what  he  is  like,  for  his  letters 
are  very  characteristic.  He  is,  besides,  one  of  those  fortu- 
nate mortals — we  all  know  a  few  such — who,  place  them 
where  you  will  under  the  most  unpromising  circumstances, 
and  among  people  who  seem  made  of  the  commonest  clay. 


*  Miss  Mitford  alludes  to  this  observation  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Harness  : 
"  Certainly  the  Pickwick  countenance  as  given  in  the  prints  is  like  our 
dear  friend  ;  but  he  is,  with  all  his  kindness,  a  great  deal  too  shrewd  and 
clever  for  that  very  benevolent  and  rather  simple  personage." 


Literary  Matters.  273 

yet  will  they  make  an  Eden  for  themselves,  and  bring  out, 
by  a  sort  of  alchemy  of  their  own,  the  pure  gold  of  human 
nature.  How  else  could  Mr.  Martin  have  found  what  he 
did  in  the  out-of-the-world  regions  about  Heanor,  old  Acre 
Lane,  and  Langley  Mill,  high-minded  men  and  accomplished 
women  ?  I  am  sure  we  shall  like  Mr.  Martin,  although  the 
immediate  object  of  his  mission,  the  editing  the  life  of  his 
ancient  friend,  Mr.  Frost,  we  cannot  undertake  in  our  own 
person,  for  this  simple  reason,  that  we  are  so  full  of  literary 
engagements  for  the  next  two  or  three  years  as  to  render  it 
impossible.  Nevertheless,  William  will  do  his  best  to  put 
Mr.  Martin  in  a  way  of  having  it  done,  by  endeavors  to  sug- 
gest some  other  person.  It  is  rather  curious  that  William 
has  been  solicited  by  a  publisher  to  write  "  The  History  of 
Reform,"  a  noble  work — and  he  has  already  about  a  hun- 
dred volumes  in  the  house  sent  to  him  for  that  purpose; 
but  it  must  stand  over,  at  least  till  our  return  from  Ger- 
many, although  it  is  a  work  greatly  to  his  taste.  I  expect, 
however,  before  we  leave  England,  he  will  have  to  spend 
about  two  months  in  Northumberland  and  Durham,  which 
is  to  form  the  subject  of  the  second  volume  of  the  "  Re- 
markable Places." 

I  have  just  got  your  "  Finden's  Tableaux."  I  have  not 
yet  had  time  to  read  your  articles,  nor  even  Miss  Barrett's, 
but  I  have  looked  it  through.  Is  it  not  a  glorious  book  ? 
We  are  so  delighted  with  poor  Mr.  Brown's  designs.  We 
know  something  of  him,  and  feel  much  interested  for  him. 
Poor  man  !  he  is  doomed,  we  fear,  to  die  of  consumption, 
but  his  imagination  is  so  pure,  so  poetical — is  it  not  ?  We 
want  to  employ  him  to  illustrate  my  ballad  poetry,  but  I  fear 
his  health.  I  think,  however,  if  he  were  able  to  undertake 
it,  he  would  produce  something  very  good  and  striking,  for 
his  genius  has  a  bent  that  way. 

God  bless  you,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  and  send  you  health 
and  all  prosperity.     We  all  send  our  love. 

Yours  affectionately,  Mary  Howitt. 

12* 


274  Italy. 

Mrs.  Hofland  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Broadway,  Hammersmith  [1840]. 

My  dear  Friend, — It  strikes  me  that  you  and  I  are  much 
too  genteel  to  use  this  villanous  cheap  postage,  therefore 
we  cannot  correspond  as  we  want — in  truth,  not  a  day  goes 
over  my  head  without  my  saying  that  I  am  going  to  write  to 
dear  Miss  Mitford,  and  that  I  want  to  know  exactly  what 
she  is  doing ;  still  it  does  not  get  done — there  are  so  many 
letters  to  answer  which  must  be  done.  AVhat  can  one  do, 
when  everything  says  you  grow  old  ? 

Yesterday,  for  the  first  time,  I  saw  your  beautiful  book  at 
Mr.  Hoole's,  and  was  delighted  to  see  half  the  things  were 
your  own.  I  am  going  there  next  week,  and  shall  read  them 
all;  one  cannot  borrow  one  of  those  books  to  be  easy  about 
them.  Miss  Brabazon  told  me  some  time  since  that  the 
doctor  was  suffering  from  a  bad  arm,  but  it  was  getting  bet- 
ter ;  but  I  have  once  more  been  in  London  a  few  days,  and 
had  the  very  great  pleasure  of  seeing  Mr.  Harness  and  his 
sweet  sister,  who  is  quite  as  young  as  she  was  a  dozen  years 
since,  and  actually  prettier.  There  was  also  a  lovely  niece, 
as  like  her  uncle  thirty  years  ago  as  possible.  What  was 
best  of  all,  they  seemed  glad  to  see  me,  and  that  is  a  great 
treat  to  an  old  woman,  who  so  seldom  peeps  into  the  world 
that  she  fears  to  meet  its  face,  which  might  reproach  her  for 
living  so  long. 

My  master  enjoys  everything  in  Italy  with  wonderful  zest, 
and  though  he  says  he  has  undertaken  too  much  for  his  time 
of  life,  and  is  very  old-gentlemanish,  he  has  done  more  work 
than  ever  he  did  before,  since  he  got  over  a  sense  of  depres- 
sion arising  from  the  extreme  beauty  of  the  scenes  and  his 
own  inadequacy  to  represent  them.  When  he  left  Naples, 
he  had  made  thirty  finished  sketches.  With  Rome  he  is 
quite  charmed — "  it  is  so  quiet  and  clean  " — but  does  not 
sketch  there.  Since  he  went,  his  publisher  of  the  "  Fishing 
Book"  was  bankrupt,  but  the  business  is  continued,  and  I 
hope  he  will  not  lose  much ;  but  it  was  a  great  shock  to  me 
at  first. 

Mr.  Harness  says  you  are  going  to  publish  your  own  let- 


Mifs  Mit ford's  Letters.  275 

ters,  which  will,  I  am  certain,  be  a  very  charming  volume  (to 
be  interspersed  by  those  of  Sir  William  Elford).  I  have 
many  beautiful  letters  of  yours,  which  might  be  worked  in 
with  others,  if  you  ran  short,  and  addressed  to  any  one.  They 
were  written  from  1817-1824,  when  you  had  more  leisure  for 
scribbling  freely  than  you  have  had  since,  and  were  not 
trammelled  by  the  business  of  literature.  You  will  see  how 
you  go  on.  I  esteem  your  beautiful  letters  far  too  much  to 
waste  them,  even  on  you  ;  so  I  shall  not  send  any  of  them 
till  you  say  they  will  be  useful.  I  mention  it  because  you 
may  not  recollect  you  wrote  such  clever  letters  to  so  humble 
a  friend  as  I. 

My  own  peculiar  and  out-of-the-way  disappointments  as 
to  an  historical  novel  I  cannot  tell  you,  for  my  wounds  are 
too  green.  I  meant  it  for  my  last — it  will  be  last,  and  best, 
but  never  seen, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hall,  they  tell  me,  are  gone  to  Ireland  to 
make  a  book  between  them  to  suit  Creswick's  plates.  It  is 
seldom  that  I  hear  of  any  literary  news,  yet  I  have  one  very 
nice  neighbor,  who  sends  me  books,  but  can  seldom  call,  be- 
ing editor  of  the  Naval  and  Military  Gazette — and  there  are 
some  pleasant  families,  who  are  kind  and  call  on  me;  but  I 
do  not  like  living  alone  at  all.  I  have  no  desire  for  what  is 
called  company — in  fact  I  dislike  it,  but  I  must  have  some- 
body to  speak  to,  otherwise  I  sit  and  think  on  all  I  have 
loved  and  lost,  and  the  sorrows  of  my  whole  life  walk  in 
procession  before  me.  A  single  person,  not  rich  enough  to 
receive  friends,  should  board  in  a  family. 

How  dreadfully  gardens  were  cut  up  last  winter !  How 
does  yours  fare  ?  The  season  has  been  admirable.  I  never 
knew  such  a  fine  April.  Will  you  ever  come  to  London,  I 
wonder;  but,  if  you  do,  the  great  folks  will  devour  you,  and  I 
shall  not  get  a  morsel.  There  is  only  one  Reading  coach 
that  goes  through  Hammersmith.  What  a  change  railways 
have  made !  Only  two  mails  go  through,  and  there  were 
nine  two  years  ago.  People  actually  go  to  Sheffield  in 
eight  hours.  A  friend  the  other  day  lunched  at  one  in  his 
own  house,  and  took  tea  in  town  at  half-past  ten,  quite 
settled. 


276  Antislavery  Movemefit. 

Now  do,  my  dear  friend,  tell  me  how  you  are,  for  I  do 
want  to  know  sadly,  and  all  about  you,  and  your  dear  father, 
to  whom  offer  my  best  regards,  and  believe  me  most  truly, 
Your  affectionate  friend,  B.  Hofland. 

Mrs.  Opie  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Norwich,  Aug.  7,  1840. 

My  very  dear  Friend, — On  my  return  from  London 
three  days  ago  I  found  thy  kind  letter,  and  was  truly  grati- 
fied to  receive  such  a  proof  of  thy  confidence  not  only  in  my 
will,  but  my  capability  of  serving  thee ;  and  had  I  followed 
the  impulse  of  my  heart,  disregarding  the  monitions  of  my 
judgment  and  my  sense  of  honor,  I  should  have  written 
directly  to  say  I  would,  to  obiige  thee  (and  on  no  other  con- 
dition), undertake  the  task  so  flatteringly  assigned  me.  But 
I  forbear  to  give  way  to  my  impulses,  and  now,  after  much 
serious  consideration,  I  am  forced  to  refuse  thy  request. 
Now,  to  tell  my  reasons,  I  am  in  the  first  place  bound  in  a 
degree  not  to  invent  a.  story,  because  when  I  became  a  Friend 
it  was  required  of  me  not  to  do  so.  The  tale  I  sent  to  Tait 
was  all  invention,  but  that  was  written  before  I  joined  the 
Society,  and  was  read,  and  its  publication  sanctioned  in  an 
annual  which  never  appeared,  and  the  person  for  whom  it 
was  written  became  a  bankrupt,  and  returned  it  to  me.  He 
gave  me  twenty-five  guineas  for  it.  Having  it  by  me,  and 
knowing  it  to  have  been  approved  by  a  preacher  in  our 
Society,  I  ventured  to  sell  it  to  Tait.  But  perhaps  I  could 
have  found  something,  half  true  and  half  false,  which  might 
have  suited  the  drawing;  therefore  that  Quaker  scruple  is 
not  my  reason  for  refusing. 

This  is  it.  I  have  faithfully  promised  to  give  my  whole 
mind  to  drawing  up,  if  I  a77i  able,  a  sort  oi popular  precis  of 
the  glorious  antislavery  proceedings  and  sittings  in  the  Anti- 
slavery  Convention.  "  The  World's  Convocation,"  recently 
held  at  "  Freemasons'  Tavern,"  where  I  was  daily  a  de- 
lighted auditor ;  and  some  of  my  own  Society,  distinguished 
members  of  that  convention,  entreated  me  to  try  at  least  to 
draw  up  something  for  the  committee  to  publish.  I  do  not 
believe  myself  sufficiently  able  in  mind  and  talent  to  do  it, 


Mrs.  Opie.  277 

but  I  feel  bound  to  try;  and  I  have  also  a  promise,  unful- 
filled as  yet,  to  Tait  to  give  him  "  Recollections  "  of  Lafay- 
ette or  of  Cuvier.  The  latter  I  may  defer,  the  former  I  can- 
not; and  this  very  day  I  re-read  Harriet  Martineau's  mas- 
terly "  Martyr  Age  of  America,"  to  stimulate  me  to  begin 
my  task.  This  is  the  truth,  and,  as  I  know  thee  to  be  a  just 
person,  I  feel  that  thou  wilt  see  that  I  am  only  acting  ?LJust 
part  in  declining  to  accede  to  thy  wishes. 

It  is  almost  post-time  —  I  must  conclude.  I  hope  and 
trust  thy  dear  father  will  suffer  no  more  from  his  accident, 
and  that  you  will  have  a  pleasant  autumn  together.  Thine 
in  love  and  haste,  A.  Opie. 

Pray  write. 


2/8  Letters  of  Mifs  Mitford, 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Letters  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Barrett. — Description  of 

SiLCHESTER.  —  DECLINE   OF   Dr.   MlTFORD.  —  LETTERS    FROM    MrS. 

Trollope  and  Miss  Sedgwick. 

The  following  letters  to  Miss  Barrett  were  written  in  1842, 
the  year  in  which  Dr.  Mitford  died,  and  it  has  been  thought 
desirable  to  print  them  here,  as  they  have  not  been  pre- 
viously published,  and  afford  good  specimens  of  Miss  Mit- 
ford's  writing,  as  well  as  proofs  of  her  devotion  to  her  father 
during  his  last  illness. 


Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Barrett. 

Three  Mile  Cross,  May  5,  1842. 
Mr.  Kenyon's  kind  letter,  my  beloved  love,  arrived  just 
soon  enough  to  be  answered — that  is  to  say,  to  have  a  very 
long  postscript  appended  to  a  very  brief  letter.  Some  friends 
of  his  have  come  to  Silchester,  and  I  shall  go  to  see  them 
to-morrow  or  next  day.  Oh,  that  you  could  be  of  the  party  ! 
Well,  in  spite  of  the  manner  in  which  the  winds  have  affected 
that  dear  heart,*  I  will  hope  that  the  hour  may  come  when 
we  shall  see  that  lovely  scene  together.  The  poem  on  Sil- 
chester first  made  Mr.  Kenyon  and  me  friends,  and  that 
friendship  was  the  remote  cause  of  one  to  me  still  more  pre- 
cious— there  is  one  reason  for  loving  Silchester.  But  the 
scene  is  itself  so  beautiful !  Fancy  a  hundred  acres  of  the 
highest  land  in  the  south  of  England,  the  crown  of  a  ridge 
of  hills,  mostly  covered  with  the  richest  woodland,  enclosed 
by  a  wall  some  twenty  feet  high,  and  nearly  twenty  feet 
thick,  surmounted  by  huge  pollards,  high  timber-trees,  hedge- 
row shrubs  (such,  for  instance,  as  fine  old  thorns,  maple- 

*  These  words  are  inserted  conjecturally,  the  writing  being  somewhat 
indistinct. 


Silchcstcr  Scenery.  279 

bushes,  etc.),  with  enormous  masses  of  ivy,  and  wild  service- 
trees,  and  long,  pendent  shoots  of  the  brier-rose  hanging 
down  the  old  gray,  cliff-like  walls.  Everywhere  the  ground 
at  the  foot  of  these  walls  sinks  down  into  a  narrow  fosse  at 
the  depth  of  some  hundred  feet,  rising  again  on  the  opposite 
side — some  part  of  this  outer  ditch  being  rich  meadow-land — 
other  portions  in  the  most  beautiful  coppice — ^joining  again 
to  the  other  copses — on  the  most  beautiful  ascents  and  de- 
clivities. Nothing  was  ever  so  exquisitely  mantled  about. 
Just  at  one  of  the  gates  of  the  old  city,  a  huge  crag  clothed 
with  ivy  and  crowned  with  magnificent  timber-trees,  stands 
the  pretty  country  church ;  adjoining  to  that  an  old  rustic 
farm-house;  and  at  a  little  distance,  in  a  magnificent  grove 
of  oak-trees,  the  amphitheatre,  with  its  five  rows  of  seats  still 
to  be  traced — huge  elms  growing  on  the  top  and  sides,  and 
the  large  oval  space  in  the  bottom  perfectly  clear,  a  fine 
level  arena  of  smooth  and  verdant  turf.  On  one  side  of 
the  amphitheatre  is  a  piece  of  water,  dark  as  a  mirror ;  an- 
other deep  pool  reflects  the  hoary  walls  and  some  noble 
oak-trees;  and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  city  the  parson- 
age, a  beautiful  house,  very  large  for  a  pastoral  mansion, 
with  its  pretty  grounds,  sweeps  away  into  the  woodland 
scenery  of  the  south  side  of  the  walls.  A  short  avenue 
leads  to  the  fine,  open,  breezy  common,  golden  with  furze 
and  broom,  and  from  that  commodious  upland  you  look 
down  upon  the  hundreds,  ay,  thousands,  of  acres  of  the  most 
wild  and  exquisite  sylvan  scenery.  Pamber  Forest  is  spread 
beneath  your  feet;  on  one  side  the  dark  fir-plantations  of 
Mortimer  Common  rise  over  a  clear  little  lake  with  its  de- 
coy and  its  millions  of  wild-fowl — on  the  other.  High  Clere; 
the  Beacon  hills  stretch  away  over  the  wild  district  of  North 
Hampshire,  where  Mr.  Chute's  curious  old  place,  The  Vine 
{vide  Horace  Walpole),  and  the  still  more  remarkable  moat- 
ed grange  of  Bear,  carry  back  the  eye  and  the  fancy  to  the 
days  of  Clarissa,  and  of  manners  and  scenery  more  primitive 
still.  Oh,  how  I  should  love  to  stand  with  you  upon  Sil- 
chester  Common!  Its  floral  beauty  I  have  endeavored  to 
describe  to  you  in  my  scrawl  of  last  night — but  the  purity 
of  the  air,  the  fragrance  of  the  budding  woods,  the  enormous 


28o  Silchester. 

fir-plantations,  the  wide  expanse  of  richly  scented,  blossomed 
gorse,  the  acres  of  wild  hyacinth  and  of  lilies  of  the  valley, 
defy  all  description.  It  must  be  felt.  Oh  that  we  were 
there  together!  I  so  love  Silchester — always  loved  it.  Al- 
ways a  drive  to  Silchester,  or  ramble  through  the  woods, 
was  to  me  joy  and  delight,  health,  freedom,  and  happiness ; 
and  since  I  have  learned  to  think  of  it  as  a  link  in  the  chain 
of  our  friendship,  I  have  loved  it  more  and  more.  Surely  a 
wish  so  ardent  will  one  day  realize  itself  We  shall  stand 
together  in  that  lily  coppice,  where  terrace  hangs  over  ter- 
race crossed  with  its  thousand  trees,  carpeted  with  its  myriad 
flowers,  vocal  with  the  blackbird  and  the  nightingale.  Sure- 
ly, surely,  we  shall  some  day  go  together  to  Silchester.  You 
will  think,  my  dearest,  that  I  rave.  But  so  well  do  all  here 
know  my  passion  for  the  place  that,  when  very  ill,  my  poor 
father  years  ago  has  often  said,  "  We  will  go  to-morrow  to 
Silchester,"  and  that  was  a  never-failing  specific.  Even  now 
he  goes  there.  It  is  a  strange  feeling  that — for  he  himself 
has  not  my  enthusiasm  for  the  spots,  and  now  thinks,  per- 
suades himself,  that  it  tires  me ;  but  it  is  a  sort  of  imitation. 
He  recollects  my  love  for  it,  my  persuasion  of  the  good  that 
it  did  always  effect  upon  me  (the  benefit  resulting  partly 
from  the  delicious  purity  of  the  air,  partly  from  the  love), 
and  now,  without  the  love,  he,  from  pure  imitation,  persuades 
himself  that  what  used  to  be  good  for  me  will  be  good  for 
him :  so  (although  too  far,  as  I  fairly  tell  him)  he  goes. 

You  are  far  too  good,  my  most  dearest,  in  what  you  say 
of  my  poor  letters.  They  come  from  my  heart,  and  there- 
fore go  to  yours — but  that  is  all  their  merit — merit  to  us 
only — to  the  lover  and  the  loved.  Was  there  enough  of 
the  honey  to  taste?  It  seemed  so  light  that  it  might  be  all 
but  empty.  From  two  other  "tastes"  of  the  same  "honor- 
ing gift"  (and  who  should  have  it,  if  not  you?)  it  seemed  to 
me  strongly  myrtle-flavored — tasting  exactly  Hke  the  scent 
of  a  bruised  myrtle-leaf.  The  most  delicious  honey  that  I 
ever  met  with  came  from  the  orange  groves  of  Sicily,  and 
had  the  exact  flavor  of  that  delicious  perfume.  Would  the 
myrtle  taste  keep  away  the  flies,  or  was  it  an  exaggeration  ? 

Upon  reading  over  my  wretched  scrawl  I  see  that,  with 


Silchester.  281 

my  usual  curious  infelicity,  I  have  contrived  to  make  it  ap- 
pear that  the  one  hundred  acres  within  the  walls  of  Silches- 
ter are  partly  woodland — whereas  they  are  clear,  open  fields. 
It  is  the  hills  and  declivities  around  that  seem  hewn  out  of 
some  vast  forest.  One  sweet  village  close  by  (Mortimer 
West  End)  goes  straggling  down  one  steep  hill  and  up  an- 
other— partly  coppice,  partly  meadow,  partly  field — a  clear 
bubbling  brook  crossing  the  road  at  the  bottom,  and  the 
road  itself  winding  and  twisting,  so  as  to  give  it  at  every 
step  a  fresh  landscape.  Oh,  the  beautiful  cottages  of  that 
West  End!  In  many  of  them  piles  of  long,  straight  poles 
and  neatly  arranged  staves  are  leaning  against  the  ends  of 
the  dwellings,  giving  token  of  the  sylvan  trade  of  the  inhab- 
itants! But  for  the  distance  from  Mr.  May,  I  should  long 
since  have  coaxed  my  father  into  migrating  as  far  towards 

Silchester  as  Mortimer  End  West.     Only  how  K would 

dispense  with  the  streets  and  shops  of  Reading  I  can't  tell. 
She  is  most  thankful  for  your  kind  and  condescending  no- 
tice of  her  sister,  who  lives  as  lady's  maid  with  the  Misses 
Pepys — Sir  William  Pepys'  sisters — in  Bryanston  Square. 
I  have  a  good  opinion  of  their  sense,  for  I  find  that  they 
leave  their  town  house  in  May  (not  letting  it,  but  shutting 
it  up),  and  resort  to  their  country-seat  to  stay  the  fine  sea- 
son in  the  pretty  scenery  of  Kent. 

Did  you  find  the  leaf  of  the  humea  elegans  between  two 
leaves  of  Sir  William's  book?  Did  you  like  the  scent?  It 
is  the  fashion,  and  the  plant  came  to  me  from  Strathfield- 
saye — the  gardener  there  and  I  having  a  trafiic  in  flowers. 
In  days  of  yore  I  used  to  get  books  from  the  Strathfieldsaye 
library — Lord  Rivers  and  my  father  being  great  friends  and 
fellow-coursers.  He  was  a  man  of  taste,  and  from  him  I 
borrowed  more  volumes  than  I  can  recollect  of  French  me- 
moirs. They  are  delightfully  amusing.  I  must  go  over 
them  again  when  I  have  time,  not  from  Strathfieldsaye — I 
doubt  if  the  great  duke's  library  be  half  as  well  furnished 
as  was  that  of  his  predecessor,  who  had  a  noble  collection 
of  the  best  books — but  from  Sir  Henry  Russell,  whose  wife, 
a  Frenchwoman,  has  caused  her  accomplished  husband  to 
add  the  literature  of  her  native  country  to  his  own. 


282  Dr.  Mit ford's  Last  Ilhiefs. 

Heaven  bless  you !  I  am  tired  to  death,  and  I  presume 
that  my  sleepy  letter  bears  sufficient  marks  of  my  condition 
— thrice  happy  if  it  may  come  in  aid  of  opium,  and  bring 
sleep  to  your  eyelids. 

***** 

Once  again  heaven  bless  you,  my  most  dearest!  My  fa- 
ther sends  his  kindest  love. 

Your  faithful,  M.  R.  Mitford. 

P.S. — How  is  your  Flushie?  Mine  becomes  every  day 
more  and  more  beautiful,  and  more  and  more  endearing. 
His  little  daughter  Rose  is  the  very  moral  of  him,  and  an- 
other daughter  (a  puppy  of  four  months  old,  your  Flushie's 
half-sister)  is  so  much  admired  in  Reading  that  she  has  al- 
ready been  stolen  four  times — a  tribute  to  her  merit  which 
might  be  dispensed  with  —  and  her  master  having  upon 
every  occasion  offered  ten  pounds  reward,  it  seems  likely 
enough  that  she  will  be  stolen  four  times  more.  They  are 
a  beautiful  race,  and  that  is  the  truth  of  it. 

The  commencement  of  the  next,  also  written  from  Three 
Mile  Cross,  is  wanting. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Barrett. 

...  At  last  it  occurred  to  me  that  the  best  for  him  would 
be  to  move  the  large  articles  of  furniture  with  which  our 
€ntrance-l>all  is  filled,  and  restore  the  little  parlor  to  its  of- 
fice of  a  sitting-room  for  him,  put  up  my  dear  father's  bed 
in  the  hall,  condemning  both  the  front -door  and  the  one 
from  the  staircase,  leaving  none  but  that  from  the  parlor 
and  that  from  the  kitchen,  and  going  in  and  out  myself  from 
our  back-door.  This  has  been  accomplished,  thank  God, 
without  disturbing  him.  A  bed  is  put  up  in  the  kitchen 
for  his  nurse.  I  shall  sit  up  when  needful  in  the  parlor,  and 
the  large  fires  of  the  parlor  and  kitchen,  and  the  double 
doors  and  double  carpets  with  which  we  have  lined  the  hall, 
make  that  a  most  warm  and  comfortable  bedroom.  Heaven 
be  praised !  Now  he  can  have  his  two  favorite  arm-chairs 
in  the  little  parlor,  and  be  moved  from  one  to  the  other  as 


Dr.  M it  fords  Last  Illnefs.  283 

he  gets  cramped,  and  Flush  and  I  can  sit  at  his  feet.  Poor 
Flush!  how  he  has  been  watching  the  operations,  and  how 
thoroughly  he  approves  them !  I  wish  you  could  see  him. 
Mr.  May  will  be  delighted  to  find  that,  besides  a  comfort- 
able bedroom,  we  have  got  a  nice  little  parlor  for  him — 
change  is  so  essential.  Now  he  can  get  up  as  early  as  he 
likes,  and  stay  up  as  long;  and,  instead  of  the  stove  which 
Mr.  May  suggested  for  the  hall,  he  will  have  the  nice  open 
grate  which  he  likes  so  well,  and  his  favorite  round  table, 
and  his  own  twcf  chairs. 

I  cannot  tell  you  the  relief  that  this  is  to  us  all.  I  have 
been  so  worried,  besides  the  anxiety  and  the  grief  and  the 
fatigue,  that  this  one  relief  is  an  unspeakable  blessing.  It 
seemed  so  hard  that  the  discomfort  of  moving  up  and  down  our 
cottage  stairs  should  be  added  to  such  feebleness.  Now  he 
will  at  least  have  no  outward  want  of  room  or  appliances; 
and  as  to  visitors  being  forced  to  come  in  at  the  back-door, 
and  pass  through  the  kitchen — wh)',  friends  will  not  mind 
it,  and  acquaintances  I  should  not  dream  of  letting  in. 

I  do  not  apologize  for  sending  you  this  detail,  my  beloved 
friend:  you  will  sympathize  with  me,  I  know,  and  this  lodg- 
ing my  father  has  been  a  most  serious  matter  to  me.  Ever 
since  his  dear  master  has  been  so  ill,  poor  little  Flush 
has  either  slept  at  his  door — across  the  door — or  in  my 
room,  which  he  never  used  to  do.  It  seems  as  if  he  could 
not  bear  to  leave  us,  and  there  is  a  look  of  pity  in  his  sweet 
countenance,  a  fellow-feeling  which  I  cannot  describe.  The 
gentleness  with  which  he  kisses  his  master's  hand  now  is 
quite  charming. 

Poor  K.  is  very  good  to  me — indeed,  I  must  say  that 
everybody  feels  strongly  and  rightly  towards  my  dear  father. 
They  are  kind  to  me  in  a  great  measure  for  his  sake.  Poor 
as  he  has  lately  been,  he  has  done  so  much  good — good  that 
mere  money  could  not  do — by  uncompromising,  unflinching 
justice.  Whoever  was  oppressed  had  a  friend;  whoever 
sought  aid  in  any  proper  object  had  a  zealous,  hearty  ad- 
vocate. Be  sure,  my  beloved  friend,  that  when  I  say  a 
country  gentleman's  life  is  one  of  widespreading  usefulness, 
I  speak  of  what  I  know.    There  is  not  a  poor  person  within 


284  Drought. 

ten  miles  who  does  not  bless  my  dear  father — ay,  and  many 
not  poor,  who  sought  advice,  and  a  helping  hand,  and  a 
voice  never  silent,  when  it  could  promote  the  welfare,  or  the 
prosperity,  or  the  harmless  pleasure  of  others.  Forgive  me 
when  I  say  this:  but  why  should  I  not?  All  the  authorship 
in  the  world  would  never  win  the  love  and  respect  that 
awaits  upon  a  character  so  firm  in  the  right  and  so  full  of 
active  good-will  towards  his  kind.  God  bless  him  1  Even  in 
his  own  extreme  feebleness  he  neither  forgets  those  whom  he 
could  help  (his  last  relapse  was  brought  on  by  an  attempt 
to  go  to  the  bench  last  Saturday  to  serve  a  neighbor,  and, 
although  forced  to  return  without  alighting,  he  accomplished 
his  object  by  sending  for  his  brother  magistrates  to  the  door), 
nor  his  gratitude  towards  those  who  are  so  good  to  me. 
Even  to-night  he  spoke  to  me  of  "  dear  Miss  Barrett." 
Once  again,  beloved  friend,  I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  this 
— I  should  not  love  you  as  I  do  if  I  could  doubt  your  sym- 
pathy. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Barrett. 

Three  Mile  Cross,  Monday  night,  Sept.  17,  1842. 
Mv  DEAREST, — Yesterday  I  had  a  curious  letter  from  a 
dear  friend  now  at  Dresden,  Mrs.  H,  Westmacott,  whose 
husband  is  brother  of  the  professor  of  sculpture,  and  himself 
a  sculptor  of  no  mean  rank.  They  are  there  for  the  pur- 
pose of  educating  their  children ;  and  she  (a  very  clever 
woman)  writes,  that  since  the  beginning  of  March  not  a 
drop  of  rain  has  fallen,  that  the  drought  is  unparalleled  in 
the  memory  of  man,  the  fields  looking  like  portions  of 
the  desert,  the  highways  like  roads  of  rock-work,  the  burn- 
ing sky  without  a  cloud,  the  light  wind  scorching  like  fire, 
the  nights  without  dew,  the  trees  without  a  leaf,  the  crops 
of  turnip  and  beet  devoured  by  field-mice,  who  swarm  like  the 
locusts  of  Egypt,  the  cabbages  destroyed  by  caterpillars,  the 
water-mills  stopped  (and  there  are  no  windmills  in  that  part 
of  Germany),  navigation  long  at  a  stand,  and  horsemen  rid- 
ing through  the  Elbe ;  sheep  and  cattle  fed  with  chopped 
straw,  or  killed  for  a  hundredth  part  of  their  original  cost; 
provisions  of  all  kinds  more  than  doubled ;  washing,  bleaching, 
scouring  of  every  sort  prohibited,  and  water  sold  at  a  penny 


Dr.  Mit ford's  Last  Illncfs.  285 

a  quart  in  the  streets.  Mrs.  Westmacott  is  a  very  clever 
woman;  and  her  letter,  as  graphic  and  truthful  as  a  bit  of 
De  Foe,  really  touches  one  to  read.  I  hate  heat  and  drought 
— really  preferring  rain  and  cold — and  have  not  ceased  since 
the  arrival  of  her  letter  to  thank  God  for  living  in  our  tem- 
perate climate. 

Mr.  May  says  that  my  father  is  better,  if  he  would  but 
think  so.  But  that  he  is  so  far  from  doing,  that  to-day  he 
refused  any  dinner,  and,  having  risen  at  twelve  o'clock,  went 
to  bed  at  two,  so  that  we  have  been  compelled  to  feed  him 
with  fruit,  and  brandy-and-water,  and  rich  cake,  sopped 
through  one  of  those  cups  with  covers  to  them  constructed 
for  the  bedridden,  and  I  am  now  writing  at  his  bedside ; 
when  he  would  be  so  much  better  up!  And  he  ought  to 
get  out  to-morrow;  but  of  that  I  have  small  hope.  Every 
day,  and  twenty  times  a  day,  he  says  that  he  shall  die 
before  the  sun  rises  again,  that  he  shall  never  see  me  again, 
and  so  forth.  I  am  sure  that,  in  different  forms,  he  repeats 
this  a  hundred  times  in  the  twenty-four  hours:  he  says  it 
much  oftener  than  everything  else  put  together.  The 
strange  thing  is,  that  the  effect  upon  me  never  changes,  I 
hear  it  always  with  the  same  shock ;  and  the  power  of  sadden- 
ing and  depression  which  such  words  possess  rather  increases 
than  diminishes  with  repetition.  This  is,  of  course,  great 
weakness  in  me — a  great  proof  of  the  nervousness  which  such 
unvaried  anxiety  and  fatigue  have  induced.  Nothing  keeps 
me  alive  but  air — my  evening  walk  up  the  hill  and  through 
the  trees  (an  avenue  of  splendid  oaks  three  quarters  of  a 
mile  long),  then  down  another  turfy  hill  to  an  open  grove 
of  oak  on  one  side,  on  the  other  a  patch  of  varied  groups  of 
tall  trees  and  underwood,  hawthorn,  wild -rose,  and  holly; 
the  holly  rising  into  the  forest  trees,  and  yet  fencing  round 
the  different  clumps,  so  various  in  size  and  shape,  with  a 
short,  uniform  hedge  about  three  feet  high,  most  peculiar  in 
its  effect  and  most  beautiful.  Several  artists  to  whom  I 
have  shown  it  say  that  they  never  before  saw  the  holly  as- 
sume such  a  character — two  characters  united  so  singularly — 
full  twenty  of  these  patches  of  oak,  beech,  and  elm  rising 
out  of  the  turf  being  filled  to  the  very  bottom  with  hoary 


286  Woodland  Scenery. 

hawthorn,  tall  holly,  and  pendent  bramble  and  brier,  while 
this  hedge  of  holly,  uniform  as  box  in  a  garden,  surrounds 
every  clump.  Fancy  how  beautiful  these  patches  of  wood- 
land— all  diversified  in  size  and  shape,  rising  from  fine  green 
turf,  and  divided  by  a  road  from  an  open  grove — stand,  with 
a  distance  of  small  enclosures,  some  arable,  some  water 
meadow;  and  imagine  the  comfort  I  find  in  the  absolute 
solitude,  the  repose,  the  silence  of  such  a  walk ! 

Some  of  my  neighbors  (kind  people  in  the  main)  are  un- 
reasonable enough  to  expect  that  my  one  hour  of  liberty 
should  be  spent  in  calling  upon  them ;  but  that  is  out  of  the 
question.  Even  for  Mrs.  Niven  I  could  not  make  that  sac- 
rifice. That  one  walk  keeps  me  alive.  To-night  it  was 
much  troubled :  Flush  found  a  hare,  and  quested  it  for  two 
miles.  I  heard  him  the  whole  time,  and  could  follow  by  the 
ear  every  step  that  they  took,  and  called  in  desperate  fear,  lest 
some  keeper  should  kill  my  pet.  (To  be  sure,  as  Ben  and 
my  father  said  when  I  returned  and  told  my  fright,  "  Flush 
is  too  well  known  for  that.")  But  you  can  comprehend  my 
alarm  at  finding  that,  the  more  I  called,  the  more  Flushie 
would  not  come;  whilst  he  was  making  the  welkin  ring  with 
a  tongue  Unrivalled  amongst  all  the  spaniels  that  ever  fol- 
lowed game.  Instead  of  pitying  me,  both  my  father  and  Ben 
were  charmed  at  the  adventure.  The  most  provoking  part 
of  it  was  that  when,  after  following  the  hare  to  a  copse  on 
the  other  side  of  the  avenue,  he  had  at  length  come  back  to  me, 
he  actuall)^,  upon  crossing  the  scent  again,  as  we  were  return- 
ing homeward,  retraced  his  steps  and  followed  the  game 
back  to  cover  again.  This,  which  was  the  most  trying  cir- 
cumstance of  all  to  me,  was  exactly  what,  as  proving  the 
fineness  of  his  nose,  Ben  and  his  master  gloried  in.  Indeed 
Ben  caught  him  up  in  his  arms,  and  declared  that  he  would 
back  him  against  any  spaniel  in  England  for  all  that  he  was 
worth  in  the  world.  So  I  suppose  to-morrow  he'll  run 
away  again! 


Death  of  Dr.  Mitford.  287 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Carlton  Hill,  Penrith,  Dec.  16,  1842. 
I  have  this  moment  heard  from  my  brother,  my  dearest 
Miss  Mitford,  of  the  death  of  your  beloved  father.  I  well 
know  how  devoted  was  your  attachment  to  him,  and  most 
truly  feel  for  the  sorrow  this  event  will  cause  you.  But  the 
same  sweet  and  loving  nature  that  bound  you  so  faithfully 
to  him  through  life  will  teach  you  to  find  lasting  consolation 
from  remembering  how  peaceful  was  his  end,  and  will  also 
enable  you  to  find  pleasure  and  comfort  from  the  attach- 
ment of  a  host  of  friends,  who  will  all  be  ready  to  claim  a 
share  of  you  now  that  you  will  be  no  longer  absorbed  by  one 
dear  object  at  home.  I  feel  very  grateful  for  your  remem- 
bering me  at  such  a  moment,  and  I  do  entreat  you  to  believe 
that,  though  my  poor,  worn-out  stump  of  a  pen  has  well-nigh 
lost  the  power  of  writing  letters,  my  heart  and  affections  are 
by  no  means  in  the  same  dilapidated  condition,  and  that 
I  venture  to  look  forward  to  some  bright  future  summer  when 
you  will  come  and  see  me,  and  my  lakes,  and  my  grand-chil- 
dren, and  my  son  Tom,  and  my  pretty  cottage,  and,  though 
last,  not  least,  your  old  acquaintance,  Wordsworth.  God 
bless  you,  dear  friend,  and  believe  me. 

Very  affectionately  yours,  F.  Trollope. 

Miss  Sedgwick  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Boston,  June  29,  1843. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  should  long  ago  have  writ- 
ten to  you,  but  that  repeated  domestic  sorrows  left  me  little 
cheerfulness  to  communicate  to  others,  and  for  the  last 
year  my  eyes  have  been  in  a  condition  to  preclude  all  use 
of  them  not  necessary.  They  are  now  better,  and  improv- 
ing, and  I,  who  thought  time  and  sorrow  had  worn  out  the 
hopefulness  of  my  nature,  begin  to  look  with  some  faint  ex- 
pectation to  a  better  state  of  things.  Now,  my  dear  Miss 
Mitford,  that  your  long  trial  is  past,  I  trust  that  rest,  and 
the  natural  elasticity  of  your  spirit,  and  the  most  blessed 
consciousness  of  your  filial  fidelity,  and,  above  all,  your  re- 
ligious trust,  have  restored  your  tranquillity.     More  than 


288  Floivers. 

that,  in  the  autumn  of  our  life,  neither  nature,  philosophy, 
nor  religion  can  help  us  to,  and,  thank  God,  that  cannot  be 
taken  long  from  a  mind  firmly  fixed  in  faith.  I  know  not 
what  saves  those  who  are  without  religious  trust  from  a 
mad-house  or  utter  prostration  when  those  they  lean  upon 
here  are  torn  from  them. 

I  am  rejoiced  to  learn,  through  our  friend  Mr.  Kenyon 
and  others,  that  your  harassing  pecuniary  anxieties  are  re- 
lieved, and  that  your  honorable  spirit  has  been  gratified  by 
the  complete  satisfaction  of  obligations  contracted  to  allevi- 
ate your  father's  sufferings.  Theodore  Sedgwick  entered 
with  myself  most  cordially  into  a  project  to  express  the 
sympathy  of  your  friends  on  this  side  the  Atlantic.  We 
were  glad  to  have  it  prevented  by  the  only  circumstance 
that  should  prevent  it,  the  generous  and  sufficient  testimony 
of  those  who  are  your  natural  protectors  and  friends.  May 
their  sun  shine  upon  you  to  the  last ! 

I  believe  I  have  never  given  you  an  account  of  the  prod- 
uct of  the  geranium-seeds  which  you  so  kindly  sent  to  me. 
I  shared  them  with  my  friend  Mr.  Downing,  who  is  a  hor- 
ticulturist by  profession,  a  gentleman  who  has  written  some 
charming  books  on  landscape-gardening  and  rural  archi- 
tecture. He  showed  me  with  pride  his  Mitfords,  as  he  calls 
them.  No  one  could  more  highly  estimate  the  parentage 
of  the  plants,  or  more  surely  continue  and  improve  the  race. 
J,  in  my  humble  way  too,  and  in  spite  of  my  absences  and 
our  cold  northern  airs,  have  still  some  beautiful  memorials 
of  you,  which  I  trust  will  long  maintain,  fresh  and  odorous, 
a  visible  relationship  between  the  Berkshire  of  the  old 
world  and  the  new. 

You  may  remember  my  blooming  niece,  Kate:  she  is 
married  and  settled  in  Boston,  and  I  am  here  to  take  her  to 
Berkshire  with  me,  being  too  far  gone  in  my  second  child- 
hood to  be  able  to  face  our  old  home  without  her.  Your 
friend  Theodore  has  been  sadly  afflicted  by  the  death  of  a 
second  and  only  boy — a  magnificent  little  fellow,  who  looked 
as  little  like  death,  during  his  short  life,  as  an  Infant  Her- 
cules; and,  yet,  as  his  mother,  whose  prophetic  love  had 
never  been  quieted,  had  predicted,  he  died  at  the  moment 


A  Bereavement.  289 

he  attained  the  age  at  which  his  brother  had  been  taken. 
They  have  two  bright  girls,  and  Theodore  bears  with  ad- 
mirable resolution  these  repeated  disappointments. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford,  it  will  give  me  true  pleasure  to 
hear  of  any  good  that  befalls  you,  and  I  am  sure  no  evil  can 
happen  to  you  without  its  shadow  falling  on  me. 
Yours  affectionately, 

A.  M.  Sedgwick. 
13 


290  Thotnas  StackalL 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Biographical  Sketch  of  Stackall,  by  the  Rev.  W.  Lynn. — Let- 

TERS  FROM  MkS.  HoWITT,  SERGEANT  TaLFOURD,  ALE.N:ANDER  DyCE, 

Mrs.  Clive,  Mrs.  Trollope,  and  Crabbe  Robinson. 
E.EV.  W.  Lynn  to  Miss  Mitford. 

King's  Bromley,  Lichfield,  Aug.  8,  1845. 

My  dear  ISIadam, — Having  received  the  answer  which  I 
required,  I  shall  now  be  happy  to  tell  you  all  I  know  about 
my  interesting  friend  and  late  parishioner,  Thomas  Stackall. 

It  was  not  until  I  was  about  to  leave  Cledbury  Mortimer, 
where  I  resided  two  years,  that  I  even  heard  of  Stackall's 
poetical  talents,  and  only  then  by  chance.  I  was  the  more 
surprised  at  his  secrecy  on  this  point,  because  on  so  many 
other  subjects  he  had  been  most  frank  and  communicative 
with  me,  but  on  this  I  soon  found  that  he  was  exceedingly 
diffident.  However,  when  he  saw  that  concealment  was 
no  longer  possible,  he  at  once  gave  me  a  full  account  of  all 
his  poetical  rambles.  From  the  conversations  which  I 
then  had  with  him,  and  from  the  letters  which  he  has  since 
written  to  me,  I  am  enabled  to  give  you  the  following  ac- 
count : 

Thomas  Stackall  was  born  January  7th,  1807,  at  Kinfare, 
near  Stourbridge,  in  the  county  of  Stafford  ;  his  parents 
were  among  the  poorer  classes,  and  his  education  was  hum- 
ble in  proportion,  being  only  such  as  is  usually  given  in  a 
village  school  to  the  children  of  the  poor;  nor  after  twelve 
does  he  seem  to  have  had  any  regular  school  instruction ;  in- 
deed he  describes  himself  as  being  entirely  left  to  his  own  de- 
sires from  twelve  to  fifteen,  without  employment  or  restraint 
of  any  kind.  We  shall  now  see  how  these  three  years  were 
spent.  They  might  have  proved  disastrous  to  him,  for  none 
are  in  such  danger  as  the  idle ;  but  God  preserved  him.    He 


Thomas  Stackall.  291 

was  winding  a  cord  round  the  youth's  heart  which  gently 
held  him  from  evil,  and  from  corrupting  companions;  and 
this  cord  was  the  love  of  the  solemn,  the  beautiful,  and  the 
innocent  in  nature.  Much  of  his  time  during  this  period 
he  says  he  passed  in  lonely  woods,  and  on  the  banks  of  the 
Severn,  occupying  himself  in  angling,  at  which  he  was 
"quite  a  proficient,"  and  in  making  mimic  water-wheels 
with  his  knife,  and  fixing  them  in  the  miniature  cataracts 
which  gurgled  over  the  mossy  roots  at  the  river-side.  "It 
was  then,"  he  says,  "that  I  first  began  rhyming,"  though 
he  does  not  remember  what  his  first  production  was.  It 
was  then,  too,  that  his  mechanical  genius,  which  has  ever 
since  gone  hand-in-hand  with  his  passion  for  poetry,  began 
to  develop  itself,  the  mimic  water-wheel  being  its  first  essay. 
The  innocent  pleasures  of  these  days  are  well  described  in 
the  following  verses,  which  he  wrote  a  few  years  after.  I 
imagine,  however,  from  the  appearance  of  the  manuscript, 
which  is  now  in  my  possession,  and  from  grammatical  de- 
ficiency in  the  first  four  lines,  that  some  preceding  verses 
have  been  torn  off. 

"  My  native  home,  in  the  woods  away, 
Where  I  pass'd,  with  content,  my  youth's  bright  day ; 
Where  Nature  and  Love,  the  shades  among, 
Imbued  my  heart  with  affections  strong. 
Oh  !  tell  me  not  of  the  sights  so  rare, 
And  the  sounds  so  sweet  that  in  cities  are; 
Far  dearer  to  me  is  Nature's  chaunt 
And  Nature's  scenes  in  my  woodland  haunt — 
For  I  love  the  song  of  the  tuneful  bird, 
And  the  ring-dove's  coo  in  the  distance  heard, 
The  echoing  sound  of  the  cow-boy's  call, 
And  the  dash  of  the  mimic  waterfall ; 
And  I  love  to  stray  to  my  lonely  nook 
'Mid  the  flowerets  gay  by  the  crystal  brook; 
To  stretch  me  at  length  in  the  grassy  glade, 
And  survey  the  beauties  of  light  and  shade ; 
To  behold  the  light  bound  of  the  timid  roe, 
Or  gaze  on  the  river's  ceaseless  flow, 
And  at  eve  thro'  the  tangled  copse  to  roam 
To  the  dear  delights  of  my  woodland  home." 

But  young  Stackall  was  soon  to  leave  the  "  dear  delights 
of  his  woodland  home."     He  had  just  turned  his  fifteenth 


292  Thomas  Stackall. 

year  when  he  was  taken  to  Cledbury  Mortimer  to  be  ap- 
prenticed to  a  paper  manufacturer,  with  whom  he  remained 
twelve  years.  But  he  never  cordially  liked  his  trade :  it  was 
too  uninteliectual,  and  afforded  no  scope  for  his  prevailing 
genius.  Meanwhile,  however,  he  had  been  improving  him- 
self with  great  diligence  in  the  principles  of  mechanics, 
which  he  studied  chiefly  in  an  elementary  work  by  Fergu- 
son. By  way  oi practice  he  tried  his  hand  occasionally  on  a 
friend's  watches.  His  success  was  so  great  that,  in  a  year 
or  two  after,  he  finally  and  forever  abandoned  the  rags  and 
took  to  the  mainspring,  and  is  now  established  at  Cledbury 
Mortimer  as  a  country  watchmaker  with  a  good  reputation 
and  a  fair  trade.  I  must  not  forget  to  mention  that  he  has 
a  wife  and  three  children. 

I  have  now  to  tell  you  of  a  very  interesting  and,  I  believe, 
important  discovery  which  he  has  made  in  the  art  of  watch- 
making. About  a  year  and  a  half  ago  he  invented  a  new 
movement,  by  which,  at  a  comparatively  little  cost,  all  the 
real  advantages  of  the  "escapement"  can  be  introduced 
into  the  old  vertical  watches.  The  effect  of  this  new  prin- 
ciple is  to  give  steadiness  to  the  movements,  to  lessen  fric- 
tion, and  in  fact  to  make  even  old  watches  go  right  well 
again.  He  has  already  introduced  this  new  movement  into 
several  watches — amongst  others  into  one  belonging  to  a 
friend  of  mine — and  with  complete  success.  At  present,  he 
tells  me,  he  is  in  treaty  for  his  new  "  escapement "  with  a 
watch -manufacturer  for  whom  he  is  finishing  a  first-rate 
movement.  And  then  the  matter  will  most  likely  be  taken 
out  of  his  hands,  as  the  poor  man  has  no  capital  to  enable 
him  to  make  the  most  of  his  invention  and  bring  it  before 
the  public. 

I  have  now  before  me  the  manuscript  of  two  pieces  which 
he  wrote  when  he  was  twenty-two  years  of  age.  One  is  en- 
titled "Boaz  and  Ruth"  (dramatic  poetry);  the  other,  "Per- 
secution and  Piety,"  a  religious  drama,  taken  from  the  6th 
and  7th  chapters  of  Maccabees,  They  are  characterized  by 
considerable  command  of  language,  correctness  of  thought, 
and  some  imagination  in  filling  up  the  outline  of  the  text. 
The  following,  from  "  Ruth,"  is  a  fair  specimen  of  the  whole. 


Thomas  Stackall.  293 

Ruth  has  just  left  her  mother  (chap.  ii.  2,  3)  for  the  purpose 
of  gleaning  after  the  reapers.  As  she  walks  along  she 
hears  the  birds  warbling  their  sweet  matins,  and  exclaims : 

"  I'll  raise  my  voice,  and  join  their  pleasing  strain. 
King  of  glory,  Lord  of  all. 
Ruler  of  this  earthly  ball ; 
Ev'ry  plant  and  ev'ry  flower, 
Ev'ry  shrub  and  ev'ry  tree. 
Show  thy  wisdom,  love,  and  power, 
And  impartiality: 

From  thy  helpless  handmaid's  tongue, 
Oh  accept  a  sacred  song ! 

"  Earth's  Creator,  wise  and  good, 
Wake,  oh  wake  my  gratitude  ! 
May  my  ardent  praise  arise 
Swift  before  thy  glorious  throne 
As  the  morning  sacrifice. 
And  regard  me  as  thine  own. 
O  thou  weary  wand'rers'  friend, 
Up  to  thee  my  thanks  ascend  ! 

"  I'll  cross  with  haste  this*  dew-bespangled  mead, 
Where  lowing  cattle  on  the  herbage  feed. 
And  shape  my  course  to  yonder  tillage-land. 
Where  shocks  of  well-set  barley  thickly  stand, 
And  ask  the  leader  of  the  rural  train 
To  let  me  with  his  maidens  pick  the  grain. 

"  O  Lord  of  Hosts,  who  reign'st  enthron'd  in  light. 
Grant  that  I  may  find  favor  in  his  sight, 
And  give  me  strength  to  labor  well  this  day 
That,  when  Night  draws  her  sable  shrouds,  I  may 
Have  gathered  much  :  for  then  the  pleasing  sight 
Will  fill  my  Naomi's  heart  with  pure  delight ! 

(Entering  the  reapers^  field.) 

"As  with  a  bridle,  Lord,  control  my  tongue. 
If  I  should  converse  with  this  joyous  throng; 
And  may  my  words  and  actions  plainly  prove 
That  I  am  rul'd  by  thy  superior  love." 

Four  or  five  years  after  he  had  written  dramatic  pieces 
he  published  a  little  collection  of  songs  and  poems,  some 
of  which,  I  am  told,  have  become  quite  household  words 
among  the  cottagers  around  him.  As  you  have  a  copy  of 
this  collection,  I  need  not  give  any  extracts  from  it.  I 
would  only  say  that  two  favorites   are  "The   Rea"  and 


294  Charlotte  Cushinan. 

"The  Cradle."  But  his  little  poems  no  sooner  appeared  in 
print  than  he  discovered  here  and  there  many  instances  of 
bad  taste,  and  he  was  now  as  anxious  to  suppress  as  he  had 
been  before  to  publish.  Since  then  I  believe  he  has  only 
written  one  short  hymn,  on  "  The  Extension  of  Christ's 
Kingdom."  His  time  is  now  chiefly  taken  up  with  his  new 
invention. 

This  short  sketch  contains  all  I  have  at  present  to  say 
about  the  humble  poet  of  Cledbury  Mortimer,  but  should  it 
in  any  degree  increase  that  interest  which  you  have  already 
so  kindly  expressed  for  him;  or  should  it — in  the  event  of 
its  appearing  in  the  periodical  you  name — awaken  in  others 
a  generous  and  well-directed  sympathy,  I  shall  be  happy  and 
well  rewarded. 

I  remain,  my  dear  madam,  yours  very  trul}--, 

W.  Lynn. 

Mrs.  Howitt  to  Miss  Mitford. 

The  Elms,  Lower  Clapton,  July  7  [1846?]. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  must  tell  you  what,  I  am 
sure,  will  please  you,  and  that  is  that  Miss  Cushman,  the 
American  actress,  is  one  of  your  warmest  admirers.  She 
acted  in  "Rienzi"  in  her  own  land.  She  is  a  glorious 
creature  —  a  splendid  actress,  and  appears  as  superior  in 
character  as  in  talent.  One  thing  only  she  seems  to  want 
to  make  her  the  first,  the  very  first,  actress  of  the  day,  and 
that  is  beauty  of  face.  It  is  a  drawback  to  the  first  effect  as 
an  actress,  but  she  is  glorious,  spite  of  this — and  can  more 
be  said  of  her?  There  will  not,  perhaps,  be  the /uror  about 
her  among  the  yoimg  men,  but  the  sound-hearted  will  ac- 
knowledge her  power  and  her  greatness.  But,  after  all,  she 
is  beautiful — beautiful  in  the  highest  and  noblest  sense; 
beautiful  in  intellectual  expression,  in  feeling,  in  sentiment ! 
I  know  no  one  who  so  rapidly  took  hold  on  our  hearts 
as  she  did,  and  has  done. 

This  glorious  and  noble  creature,  then,  loves  and  admires 
you,  and  has  a  desire  to  pay  you  a  visit.  Will  you  write, 
and  bid  her  welcome  to  your  "  bower  of  roses  "  ?  Her  ad- 
dress is  92  New  Bond  Street. 


Haydon.  295 

We,  too,  some  time  or  other,  will  look  in  upon  you,  if  you 
will  permit  it.  For  the  present,  however,  we  are  very  busy, 
working  like  dragons — if  dragons  do  work — to  be  at  liberty 
for  two  or  three  months  in  the  autumn  in  Italy.  It  is  worth 
working  for,  and  almost  seems  too  good  for  our  actual  en- 
joyment, but  we  are  at  present  believing  that  we  may  ac- 
complish it;  and  that  is  charming. 

My  husband  is  just  about  setting  out  to  Scotland  for  a 
few  weeks.  He  is  working  at  his  *'  Homes  and  Haunts  of 
the  Poets,"  which  will  be  his  next  work — a  work  which  you 
will  like. 

Pardon  this  scrawl,  and,  with  my  husband's  kind  regards, 
believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,         Yours  ever, 

M.  HOWITT. 

Sergeant  Talfourd  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Sergeant's  Inn,  July  8,  1846. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  should  have  written  yester- 
day to  acknowledge  your  letter  and  subscription  to  the 
Haydon  Fund,  which  will  be  very  consolatory  to  his  family, 
but  that  the  sudden  death  of  our  e.\cellent  Chief-justice 
has  deranged  everything — almost  the  minds  of  those  who 
practised  daily  before  him. 

I  think  there  is  no  doubt  of  our  obtaining  all  we  can 
wish  for  Mrs.  and  Miss  Haydon.  The  Royal  Academy 
have  very  nobly  subscribed  ;^5o,  and  the  wealthy  patrons 
of  art  will,  I  doubt  not,  contribute. 

I  trust  Miss  Barrett,  to  whom  in  his  last  paper,  irre- 
spective of  a  will,  Mr.  Haydon  leaves  his  papers,  will  not 
involve  herself  in  difficulty  by  acting  on  his  wishes  without 
very  sound  advice,  for  he  was  (as  he  states)  ;^3ooo  in  debt, 
and  it  would  be  a  sad  thing  if  "our  great  poetess"  (as  I 
may  justly  call  her)  should  be  entangled  in  a  dispute  with 
his  creditors,  as  she  might  have  been  by  taking  care  of  his 
property  before,  if  bankruptcy  or  insolvency  had  arisen. 

Believe  me  to  remain,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Ever  truly  yours,  T.  Talfourd. 

Sergeant  Talfourd  had  been  educated  at  Dr.  Valpy's 
school  at  Reading,  and  was  a  life-long  friend  of  Miss  Mit- 


2g6  The '■'■  People  s  Journal ^ 

ford.*  His  love  of  the  drama,  which  led  to  the  production 
of  "  Ion,"  seems  to  have  been  fostered  by  his  school-train- 
ing. He  introduced  Miss  Mitford's  plays  to  Macready, 
and  was  often  consulted  by  her  on  literary  subjects.  She 
says  that  "  his  eloquence  was  great  and  glorious,"  and  that 
he  was  brilliant  in  conversation.  When  she  was  staying  at 
his  house  in  Russell  Square,  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  called 
on  her,  and  there  she  met  many  celebrities — Douglas  Jer- 
rold,  Ellen  Tree,t  Crabbe  Robinson,  Landor,  Kenyon,  etc. 

She  likens  Talfourd  to  Haydon  in  conversation,  manner, 
and  enthusiasm.  Haydon's  history  and  suicide  are  well 
known.  He  attempted  to  retrieve  his  fortune  by  exhibitiug 
a  cartoon  opposite  Tom  Thumb's  rooms.  But  the  "  Gen- 
eral "  proved  the  only  successful  attraction,  and  Miss  Mit- 
ford  says  that  "the  grotesque  bitterness  of  the  antagonism 
was  too  much  for  Haydon  —  the  dwarf  slew  the  giant." 
Haydon  had  been  introduced  to  Miss  Barrett  by  Miss  Mit- 
ford,  and  had  left  with  Miss  Barrett,  a  few  days  before  his 
death,  his  papers  and  the  portrait  he  took  of  Miss  Mitford. 

Mrs.  Howitt  io  Miss  ISIitford. 

The  Elms,  Clapham,  Dec.  i6,  1846. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  wrote  to  you  several  months 
ago  to  request  you  to  become  a  contributor  to  the  People's 
Journal,  in  which  we  had  just  then  become  concerned,  and 
you  were  kind  enough  to  consent.  Since  then  this  little 
periodical  has  succeeded  far  beyond  the  most  sanguine  ex- 
pectations. .  .  .  But  we  shall  withdraw  entirely  from  Mr. 
Saunders  and  the  People's  Journal  as  soon  as  possible. 
This  is  very  mortifying  to  us,  because  it  is  ourselves  who 
have  made  its  success.  However,  to  save  ourselves,  we 
must  get  free,  and  it  is  now  Mr.  Howitt's  determination  to 
commence  his  own  journal  on  the  ist  of  January;  and  thus 
he  will  be  able  to  work  freely  and  fully  for  the  people  and 
literature,  without  danger  or  impediment  of  any  kind. 

Our  friend,  Henry  Chorley,  knows  the  whole  business, 
and  has  promised  to  talk  with  you  about  it  on   Sunday, 

*  They  both  died  in  the  same  year.  t  Afterwards  Mrs.  Kean. 


Alexander  Dyce.  297 

when  he  is  with  you.  And  what  we  now  want,  dear  Miss 
Mitford,  is  that  you  will  allow  us  to  announce  your  name 
with  those  of  our  "illustrious  friends,"  as  Douglas  Jerrold 
calls  them,  who  will  support  us  in  our  undertaking.  And 
more  than  this,  we  want  you  really  and  truly  to  give  us  some 
nice  little  country  sketch  for  one  of  our  early  numbers.  Do 
this,  dear  friend,  and  you  will  really  serve  us. 

We  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  Alfred  Tennyson  lately,  and 
like  him  quite  as  well  as  the  man  as  the  poet.  He  is  really 
a  noble  creature,  with  one  of  the  purest,  kindest  spirits. 

William  unites  with  me  in  kindest  regards. 
I  am,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  yours  faithfully, 

M.  HOWITT. 

Mr.  a.  Dyce  to  Miss  Mitford. 

9  Gray's  Inn  Square,  London,  Aug.  16,  1847. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — At  last  I  send  you  the  "Beggar 
Girl,"  and,  unfortunately,  a  copy  in  such  beggarly  condition, 
that  I  cannot  say  "  I  have  much  pleasure  in  sending  it  to 
you."  But  since,  from  all  accounts,  there  is  little  chance  of 
a  better  copy  turning  up,  I  must  request  you  to  overlook 
the  filth  and  shabbiness  of  the  present  one.  I  should  be 
sorry  to  answer  "  no  "  to  any  request  which  you  might  make 
me,  else  I  should  certainly  refuse  the  verses  and  autograph 
(my  verses  and  my  autograph !)  to  your  fair  young  friend, 
whose  name,  by-the-bye,  it  is  impossible  to  make  out  from 
Harness's  vile  handwriting.*  The  fancy  that  "the  gods 
had  made  me  poetical "  has,  I  assure  you,  long  ago  passed 
away  with  many  other  pleasing  delusions. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Always  very  truly  yours, 

Alex.  Dyce. 

Mrs.  Clive  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Whitfield,  Feb.  21  [1849?]. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — The  neighbors  and  we  have 
set  up  a  book-club  since  the  beginning  of  this  year,  and  I 

*  Mr.  Harness's  writing  was  sometimes  microscopically  small,  though 
generally  clear. 

13* 


298  The  Bishop  of  Worcester. 

want  to  beg  you  to  tell  me  of  some  booklings  for  it.  We 
have  got  Macaulay  and  Layard,  and  the  "  Monasteries  of 
the  Levant,"  and  other  big  books,  but  I  want  some  moder- 
ately moral  French  novel,  or  some  very  amusing  two-and- 
sixpence  or  five -shilling  English  book,  to  keep  the  thing 
going.  Such  a  book  as  "  La  Mare  au  Diable,"  or  "  La^ 
Chasse  au  Roman,"  would  be  the  thing,  or  Murray's 
"Life  of  Conde,"  or  his  "  Memoirs  of  a  Missionary."  Can 
you  kindly  recommend  some? 

I  hope  the  mild  weather  has  agreed  with  you,  and  the 
returning  spring  will  find  you  able  to  enjoy  it.  The  chil- 
dren bring  me  primroses  from  the  woods  and  violets  from 
the  garden  every  day,  and  we  have  all  enjoyed  days  in 
which  we  could  loiter  along  on  foot  or  on  horseback  with- 
out thinking  of  our  gloves  or  our  comforters.  We  went  to 
Hartlebury  last  month,  the  Bishop  of  Worcester's.  It  is  a 
very  picturesque  place,  the  gardens  of  which  are  made  out 
of  part  of  the  moat,  and  the  walk  to  them  is  under  the 
castle-wall,  with  ivy  and  myrtle  bushes  growing  against  it. 
The  bishop  seems  a  sort  of  Knight  Templar  in  his  castle, 
with  his  great  courtyard,  great  hall,  ample  dining-room,  and 
long  corridor,  where  he  reads  morning  prayers  to  his  family 
and  guests.  Nicolas  Breakspear,  they  say,  was  Bishop  of 
Worcester  before  he  was  pope.  Bishop  Hough's  library  is 
in  the  house — an  heirloom  of  the  see,  and  Latimer's  mem- 
ory is  fresh  about  the  place.  Our  own  bishop,  the  much- 
discussed  Hampden,  is  a  mild,  shy  man,  who  keeps  his  tal- 
ents under  the  thickest  veil  he  can  find ;  but  he  is  willing 
to  talk  on  any  ?^;/learned  subject.  He  misses  the  lilacs  of 
his  parsonage  in  the  garden  of  his  palace. 

Mr.  Clive  desires  me  not  to  close  my  letter  without  re- 
membering him  very  kindly  to  you.  Pray  accept  our  united 
best  wishes,  and  believe  me,  sincerely  yours, 

Caroline  Clive. 

Mrs.  Archer  Clive  was  the  author  of  the  well-known  sen- 
sational novel,  "Paul  FerroU."  Miss  Mitford  speaks  in 
commendation  of  her  poetry:  "Mrs.  Archer  Clive  has  just 
published  a  poem  with  a  touch  of  Scott's  landscape  power;" 


Mrs.  Clivc.  299 

and  again :  "  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Archer  Clive,  a  great  friend. 
She  sent  me  the  other  day  her  poem, '  The  Queen's  Ball,' 
of  which  the  subject  is  most  striking  —  one  hundred  and 
fifty  persons  were  invited,  who  are  dead !  The  Clives  are 
all  rich."  Miss  Mitford  remarks  that  Mrs.  Clive  was  charm- 
ing, cheerful,  and  light-hearted,  in  strange  contrast  to  the 
melancholy  tone  of  her  writings. 

Sergeant  Talfourd  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Russell  Square,  Jan.  3,  1852. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Although  I  have  not  yet  re- 
ceived from  Mr,  Bentley  the  volumes  your  kindness  appro- 
priated to  me,*  I  have  made  acquaintance  with  them  at  the 
Athenaeum ;  not  indeed  fully  yet — for  they  are  so  popular 
that  yesterday  I  was  unable  to  find  one  of  them  out  of  hand. 
I  have,  however,  enjoyed  enough  of  them  to  be  able  10  wish 
you  joy  of  a  new  work  worthy  of  your  great  and  enduring 
reputation  —  with  enough  of  happily  selected  subjects  to 
make  it  interesting  to  all,  and  enough  of  personal  reference 
to  render  it  doubly  interesting  to  your  large  circle  of  friends. 
Turning  naturally  to  the  chapter  which  commemorates  the 
"  marriage  of  true  hearts,"  and  of  high  geniuses,  in  the 
destiny  of  the  Brownings,  I  was  happy  to  find  myself  hon- 
ored by  the  revival  of  a  recollection  in  which  you  form  so 
gratifying  a  part,  and  I  was,  if  possible,  still  more  touched 
by  your  most  kind  allusion  to  me  in  the  concluding  chapter, 
in  which  the  scene  of  some  of  my  very  happiest  hours  is 
the  subject  of  a  noble  farewell.  I  rejoice  greatly  to  find 
that,  while  the  association  connected  with  the  delightful 
spot  will  never  perish,  you  have  found  so  pleasant  a  home 
without  violent  disruption — only,  in  truth,  another  corner  in 
the  same  garden  ;  for  all  the  neighborhood  is  a  garden, 
only  adorned  beyond  the  reach  of  art.  I  hope  I  may  one 
day  visit  you  there,  and  renew  old  happiness  for  an  hour ; 
but  I  have  no  call  now  to  Reading,  and  my  long  absence 
from  home  on  the  circuits  renders  me  almost  ashamed  to 
propose  solitary  excursions ;  so  that  I   am  afraid  I  shall 

*  "Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life." 


300  Mr.  Fields. 

not  very  soon  realize  the  hope.  I  trust,  however,  before  the 
next  autumn's  gold  is  quite  shivered  I  shall  walk  very  gen- 
tly through  "  our  village  "  to  Swallowfield. 

Lady  Talfourd  joins  with  me  in  all  the  good  wishes  the 
season  prompts,  and  trusting  that  you  may  have  many  happy 
new  years  to  give  us  more  happy  books, 

I  remain,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  ever  truly  yours, 

Th.  Talfourd. 

Mrs.  Trollope  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Florence,  April,  1852. 
The  sight  of  your  well-known  and  dearly  remembered 
handwriting,  dearest  Miss  Mitford,  produced  an  effect  upon 
me  that  I  can  hardly  describe.  It  was,  for  a  moment,  very 
much  as  if  I  had  been  looking  at  you — and  greatly  did  I 
rejoice  at  the  sight,  but,  alas!  the  precious  bit  of  paper  was 
soon  exhausted,  and  then  I  only  wished  the  more  that  I 
could  get  sight  of  yourself.  I  had  been  out  all  the  morning, 
and  the  note  was  given  to  me  with  Mr.  Fields's  card  as  I 
went  into  the  dining-room.  My  son  immediately  proclaimed 
his  intention  of  calling  on  Mr.  Fields  on  the  following  day; 
and  this  he  did,  but  without  being  so  fortunate  as  to  see  him. 
We  were  at  that  time  in  all  the  bustle  of  the  last  days  of  the 
Carnival,  and  especially  occupied  in  preparing  for  charades, 
which  were  to  be  performed  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  who 
gave  a  ball  afterwards,  expected  to  be  one  of  the  gayest  of 
the  season,  and  for  this  entertainment  I  procured  an  invita- 
tion for  Mr.  Fields;  but,  alas!  instead  of  having  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  him,  I  received  a  note  from  him  informing  me  that 
he  was  on  the  point  of  starting  for  Rome.  His  purpose  in 
going  at  that  moment  was,  I  presume,  to  be  present  at  the 
ceremonies  of  the  Holy  Week.  These  are  no  longer,  I  am 
told,  so  splendid  as  they  have  been,  but  there  is  still  enough 
of  ceremony  left  to  gratify  those  who  have  never  before  wit- 
nessed anything  of  the  kind.  I  have  been  in  daily  hope  of 
seeing  him  return,  but  I  now  suppose  that  he  is  gone  on  to 
Naples;  yet  still  I  hope  that  we  may  catch  sight  of  him  be- 
fore he  takes  his  final  leave  of  Italy,  and  before  we  quit 
Florence,  according  to  our  annual  custom,  for  the  summer. 


Italian  Scenery.  301 

We  have  a  very  delightful  residence  here,  one  pleasant  feat- 
ure of  which  is  a  large  garden,  where  we  literally  sit  under 
the  shade  of  our  orange-trees;  but,  though  this  is  very  pleas- 
ant, we  deem  it  prudent  during  the  heat  of  an  Italian  sum- 
mer to  get  away  to  the  fresh  breezes  of  the  mountain  dis- 
tricts. The  Baths  of  Lucca  are  within  fifty  miles  of  us,  and 
it  is  probable  that  we  shall  revisit  them  this  summer.  But 
for  the  next  two  months  we  shall  continue  here,  and  shall 
hope  during  that  time  to  catch  a  sight  of  your  wandering 
friend. 

And  so  you  are  living  at  Svvallowfield.  That  name  is 
redolent  of  youth,  and  singing  birds,  and  shady  lanes,  and 
banks  of  primroses  and  violets.  And  happy  am  I  to  say 
that  I  could  ^////wander  for  miles  among  them  with  as  much 
pleasure  and  pretty  nearly  as  much  activity  as  half  a  century 
ago.  0/ course  you  have  a  garden,  for  you  would  not  he  you 
without  it.  You  would  find  our  beautiful  Italy  wofully  be- 
hind your  scientific  England  in  the  ctdtivation  of  flowers. 
You  would  scorn  our  very  best  geraniums  as  you  would  the 
merest  weed,  nor  do  I  know  of  anything,  except  our  noble 
orange  and  lemon  trees,  in  which  our  gardens  could  compete 
with  yours.  Still  less  could  we  rival  you  in  forest  trees. 
My  eye  has  learned  to  love  the  pale  gray-green  of  the  olive, 
but,  compared  with  an  oak  or  an  elm,  it  is  but  as  a  sickly 
dwarf  beside  a  stalwart  giant.  But  for  all  that,  there  is  a  most 
delicious  sort  of  harmony  in  the  whole  landscape,  which 
enchants  me  beyond  all  I  have  ever  looked  upon;  and 
this,  as  I  take  it,  is  owing  to  the  purity  of  the  light,  and  the 
surpassing  and  intense  blueness  of  the  sky.  Our  blue  is  not 
like  your  blue ;  it  is  deeply  dark,  though  as  clear  as  limpid 
water.  Claude,  and  Claude  alone,  gives  some  idea  of  this. 
The  clearness  of  light,  which  is  so  marvellously  attained  by 
the  Flemish  artists,  is  of  a  totally  different  quality.  As  to 
our  scenery,  Switzerland,  Germany — ay,  and  England,  too, 
can  often  show  viuch  finer.  But  for  the  effect,  and  its  power 
of  bewitching  the  eye,  it  is  magical ! 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Very  affectionately  yours, 

Francis  Trollope. 


302  Ladies  College. 

H.  C.  Robinson  to  Miss  Mitford. 

30  Russell  Square,  Aug.  24,  1852. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — There  can  be  no  objection  taken 
to  the  school  to  which  you  propose  to  give  ;^2oo.  Nor  is  it 
likely  that  any  of  us  five  will  object  to  be  considered  as  the 
joint  trustee-donor  of  what  is  proposed  by  any  other  of  us. 

The  only  thing  to  be  apprehended  was  that,  as  two  of  the 
trustees  are  ladies,  one  of  them — having  caught  the  influenza 
of  the  season,  which  seizes  especially  imaginative  and  tender 
natures — might  have  been  desirous  to  endow  a  nunnery.  Our 
reverend  associate  inclines,  I  believe,  to  the  Genevan  rather 
than  Romish  side  of  the  Anglican  Church,  and  it  is  very 
likely  that  he  will  make  a  proposal  similar  to  yours.  You 
make  a  remark  in  which  I  fully  concur,  as  to  Mrs.  Niven's 
jDcrsonal  feelings.  She  might  probably,  had  her  attention 
been  drawn  to  the  subject,  have  been  more  precise  in  her 
intimations. 

Had  I  been  aware  of  her  intentions,  I  should  certainly 
have  suggested  to  her  that  she  might  do  good  in  the  way  of 
example  by  devoting  the  whole  ;^iooo  to  the  cause  oi female 
education,  which  is  neglected  in  England  disgracefully. 

My  friend  Mrs.  Reid  (a  most  heroically  generous  woman) 
advanced  ;^i6oo  to  set  on  foot  the  Ladies'  College,  but  it  is 
struggling  against  unpopularity,  Mrs.  Niven  was  herself  in 
the  catalogue  of  poets,  though  she  had  not  acquired  the  dis- 
tinction conferred  on  one  of  her  trustees.  And  therefore, 
had  nothing  better  presented  itself  to  you,  it  would  have  suit- 
ed well,  to  you  especially,  to  be  the  appointee  in  such  a  case. 
Endowments  ought  to  vary,  and  unusual  gifts  lead  to  a  repe- 
tition of  them.  On  this  ground  I  successfully  applied  to 
Lady  Chantrey  to  contribute  to  the  Flaxman  Gallery — she 
being  the  foundress  of  the  Chantrey  Gallery.  Miss  Mitford's 
name  is  known  in  the  world,  and  would  have  served  to  bring 
into  notice  one  of  the  lady  colleges  recently  set  up  in 
London,  The  indirect  effect  of  all  acts  of  beneficence  is 
often  more  important  than  the  direct.  There  is  matter  to 
dream  about  for  nine  months  at  least.  I  have  not  men- 
tioned the  subject  to  Miss  Denman  yet. 


Crabbe  Robinson.  303 

To-morrow  I  set  out  to  join  the  Archaeological  Institute 
at  Newcastle-on-Tyne.  The  fine  season  for  travelling  is  yet 
to  come.  Wishing  you  the  enjoyment  of  many  seasons  as 
fine  as  the  present,  I  am  faithfully  yours, 

H.  C.  Robinson. 

Miss  Mitford  seems  to  have  known  Crabbe  Robinson 
through  her  friends,  the  Perrys. 


304  James  T.  Fields. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Letters   from  James  T.  Fields,  Miss  De  Quincey,  J.  Ruskin, 
Sergeant  Talfourd,  and  Harriet  Martineau. 

The  best  portrait  of  Miss  Mitford  was  taken  by  Lucas  in 
1852.  She  made  it  a  present  to  Mr.  Fields,  and  it  is  now  in 
America. 

Mr.  Fields  to  Miss  Mitford. 

72  Regent  Street,  London,  Saturday  morning  [1852?]. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Thank  you  heartily  for  the 
notes  to  Mr.  Chorley  and  Mr.  Lucas.  I  shall  probably 
call  to-day  on  Mr.  Lucas,  as  I  am  anxious  to  see  my  pict- 
ure, as  you  may  well  suppose.  That  copy  of"  Bentley  "  1  put 
into  my  pocket  on  purpose  for  you  the  day  I  went  down 
to  Swallowfield.  I  have  got  already  several  for  myself. 
Pray  keep  the  one  I  left.  That  day  at  Swallowfield,  and 
that  ride  to  the  cricket-match!  Ah!  these  things  will  all 
tend  to  make  my  embarkation  for  America  sad  indeed.  But 
I  don't  intend  to  go  very  soon,  I  promise  you.  Every  day 
of  my  stay  in  England  adds  another  week  to  my  intentions 
touching  the  return  home.  The  truth  is,  no  man  was  ever 
treated  with  such  kindness  before  in  Europe,  I  am  convinced, 
and  I  am  in  no  hurry  to  leave  a  land  I  love  so  much. 
AVhat  I  have  done  to  deserve  all  this,  I  do  not  remember. 
The  days  and  nights  are  not  long  enough  to  include  the 
pleasant  things  that  are  constantly  happening  to  me.  Yes- 
terday I  breakfasted  with  dear  Mr.  Kenyon,  and  did  not  for- 
get your  message  of  love  to  him.  He  is  the  same  genial 
and  delightful  person  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  before 
I  went  into  Italy.  And  how  much  I  owe  to  him  for  bringing 
me  to  your  door  at  Three  Mile  Cross!  Ah!  I  wish  it  were 
in  my  power  to  repay  something  of  all  the  kindness  I  am 
constantly  receiving  at  his  hands. 


Proposed  Visit.  305 

You  ask  if  Longfellow  is  a  clergyman.  He  is  not,  and 
never  was.  His  brother,  Samuel  Longfellow,  now  residing 
in  Paris,  was  once  a  pulpit  man,  but  he  has  given  up  the  pro- 
fession, and  taken  to  practice.  I  remember  a  good  story  of 
Dr.  Channing  in  this  way.  The  r^^r^;/// doctor,  and  the 
viedical  doctor  were  both  at  a  party  in  Boston  one  evening, 
and,  some  one  being  taken  ill,  the  man  of  medicines.  Dr. 
Walter  Channing,  was  sent  for.  The  servant  entered  the 
room  where  the  brothers  were  seated,  and  said,  "Dr.  Chan- 
ning is  wanted."  "Which  Dr.  Channing.?"  said  Walter,  the 
physician;  "the  one  who  preaches,  or  the  one  who  prac- 
tises r 

I  have  a  great  favor  to  ask  of  you.  My  brother-in-law 
and  his  wife  (William  Ware's  niece)  have  arrived  in  London, 
and  they,  I  know,  would  be  delighted  beyond  measure  should 
I  ask  them  to  accompany  me  to  Swallowfield  some  day 
during  their  stay  here.  .  Will  you  allow  me  to  say  to  them, 
"  Come,  jump  into  the  cart  and  go  down  to  Reading,  where 
I  will  show  you  Miss  Mitford's  former  residence,  and  after- 
wards take  you  over  to  see  her  for  an  hour"?  Of  course  I 
do  not  intend  to  inflict  you  with  a  long  visit,  but  I  should  be 
glad  to  give  them  the  opportunity  of  meeting  one  of  whom 
they  have  heard  so  much,  and  of  whose  writings  they  are 
such  warm  admirers.  It  would  only  amount  to  a  call,  as  I 
do  not  wish  you  to  fatigue  yourself  beyond  a  little  chat  in 
your  cottage.  It  will  be  something  they  will  never  forget, 
and  a  favor  I  feel  inclined  to  ask,  knowing  your  good-nature 
in  these  matters.  I  shall  not  say  a  word  to  them  till  I  first 
hear  from  you. 

Sam  was  quite  right:  we  did  have  to  gallop  for  it  that 
day  we  left  your  house;  and  shall  I  soon  forget  how  the  by- 
standers stared  as  we  came  thundering  up  to  the  station  just 
in  time  to  use  the  English  cry  of  "All  right,"  and  whiz  off 
to  London  I  But  that  ride  along  the  wooded  avenues  in 
your  pony-chaise,  and  the  scene  on  that  grassy  plain  !  It 
was  all  beautiful  exceedingly,  and  I  care  not  how  soon  I  get 
away  into  the  country  again,  "  through  the  green  leaves  ex- 
ploring." I  almost  envy  Sam  his  seat  in  that  fairy  car,  as 
the  little  nag  flies  over  the  ground,  in  his  funny  little  way,  so 


3o6  De  Quinccy. 

swiftly.     But  I  shall  go  again  to  Swallowfield,  and  enjoy  an- 
other drive  with  you,  ere  long. 

Ever  yours,  J.  T.  Fields. 

The  next  letter  is  a  reply  to  one  written  by  Miss  Mitford 
to  Mr.  De  Quincey,  at  Mr.  Fields's  suggestion. 

Miss  De  Quincey  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Mavis  Bush,  Lassvvade,  Oct.  13,  1852. 
My  dear  Madam,— When  your  kind  and  most  flattering 
letter  arrived,  my  second  sister  and  I,  who  generally  act  as 
my  father's  amanuenses,  were  paying  a  visit  in  Edinburgh ; 
consequently,  as  my  youngest  sister  is  not  yet  broken  in  to 
this  duty,  it  has  gone  thus  long  unanswered  ;  and,  if  we  were 
to  give  in  to  my  father's  desire,  the  chance  is  it  would  go 
totally  so — not  because  he  undervalues  the  honor  you  have 
done  him,  but  because  he  rates  it  so  highly  that  he  deter- 
mines to  do  it,  not  by  proxy,  but  personally,  and  has  already 
written  something,  I  believe,  little  short  of  a  good -sized 
pamphlet.*  But,  as  experience  teaches  us  that  delays,  if  not 
hinderances,  undreamed  of  by  all  but  De  Quincey  philosophy, 
will  occur  before  the  time  when  it  can  be  "  signed,  sealed, 
and  delivered  "  to  the  post,  we  have  begged  that  we  may  be 
allowed  to  send  a  sort  of  harbinger  to  explain  why  the  an- 
swer is  so  long  in  making  its  appearance.  I  am  therefore 
commissioned  to  say,  with  his  most  respectful  regards,  with 
what  infinite  pleasure  he  will  avail  himself  of  your  and  Mr. 
Pearson's  courteous  and  hospitable  invitation  to  visit  you, 
should  he  ever  be  within  a  possible  distance  of  doing  so  ; 
but,  as  there  is  no  immediate  prospect  of  such  being  the 
case  on  his  part,  he  and  we  join  in  hoping  that,  should  you 

*Miss  Mitford  writes  to  Mr.  Fields  in  December,  1852:  "The  pam- 
phlet has  not  yet  arrived.  I  fear  it  is  forever  buried  in  the  De  Quincey 
•  chaos.' "  We  find  in  "  De  Quincey's  Life,"  by  H.  A.  Page,  that  he 
eventually  sent  a  letter  to  Miss  Mitford,  saying  that  he  had  already 
written  three  for  her,  and  that  the  reason  he  did  not  generally  finish  and 
post  his  letters  was  that  "  whatever  he  may  be  writing  becomes  suddenly 
overspread  by  a  dark  frenzy  of  horror,"  which  he  does  not  attribute  en- 
tirely to  his  former  use  of  opium. 


Mr.  Fields.  307 

or  Mr.  Pearson  be  in  our  neighborhood,  you  will  let  us  all 
have  the  happiness  of  making  your  acquaintance. 

Few  things  for  many  years  have  given  my  father  such  un- 
mingled  gratification  as  your  letter.  I  don't  pretend  to  say 
why,  as  among  his  correspondents — if  those  can  be  called 
correspondents  where  the  correspondence  is  all  on  one  side 
— there  are  many  who  strike  us  as  being  as  truly  kind  and 
gracious  in  their  expression  of  good-will  towards  him  as 
yourself;  but  such  is  the  case. 

I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  your  kind  and  genial 
favorite,  Mr.  Fields,  and,  should  you  not  have  heard  from 
himself  yet,  I  quote  what  he  says  of  his  passage:  "We  had 
what  the  other  passengers  called  a  good  voyage,  but  what  I 
suffered  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  ;  I  can  only  say  that 
when  we  sailed  up  Boston  harbor  I  was  an  easier  and  better 
man,"  We  fully  agree  with  you,  as  far  as  our  short  acquaint- 
ance goes,  in  all  you  say  in  his  praise,  for  we  saw  him  not 
only  in  his  character  of  a  "  thoroughly  large-minded,  liberal 
man,"  but  also  in  that  of  a  joyous,  entertaining  companion, 
and  since  then  we  have  had  to  thank  him  for  spreading 
papa's  "  good  report "  in  places  where  most  we  feel  pleasure 
in  its  going,  yourself  being  the  chief.  He  seems  to  be  one 
of  those  sunny  spirits  who  radiates  his  own  bright  warmth 
wherever  he  goes. 

As  regards  your  and  Mr.  Pearson's  flattering  inquiry  about 
a  collection  of  my  father's  articles  in  England,  or  whether 
the  American  edition  will  be  available  in  this  country,  I 
leave  him  to  answer  for  himself. 

With  kindest  regards,  in  which  my  sisters  beg  to  join 
(papa  having  already  sent  his  both  to  you  and  Mr.  Pearson), 
I  beg  to  remain,  my  dear  madam,  with  much  respect, 

Very  faithfully,  M.  De  Quincey. 

Miss  De  Quincey  io  Miss  Mitford, 

Mavis  Bush,  Lasswade,  March  14,  1853. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — A  few  days  ago  I  had  a  letter 

from  Mr.  Fields,  in  which  he  mentions  some  accident  you 

have  met  with ;  but,  taking  it  for  granted  that  we  have  heard 

of  it,  he  does  not  say  of  what  nature,  but  merely  expresses 


3o8  Napoleon  III. 

his  sympathy  with  us  in  what  he  justly  supposes  will  be  our 
feelings  about  it,  having  heard  it.  Papa  wished  me  at  the 
time  to  write  directly  and  learn  what  it  was,  but  I  was  on 
the  eve  of  leaving  home  for  a  day  only,  as  I  then  supposed, 
in  such  a  hurry  that  I  could  not  do  so;  and,  having  been 
from  home  more  than  a  week,  a  longer  time  has  elapsed 
than  I  expected,  as  I  could  not  \^x\iQ.from  home,  not  having 
your  address. 

Papa  tells  me  to  say  he  heartily  agrees  with  you  in  your 
admiration  of  Louis  Napoleon  (what  if  you  have  both  arrived 
at  your  admiration  of  him  by  the  most  opposite  roads,  and 
for  the  most  opposite  reasons !),  and  he  has  been  so  dis- 
gusted by  the  senseless  attacks  made  by  the  Times  and  other 
papers  upon  him  that,  but  for  the  fiend  Procrastination  hold- 
ing him  back  and  causing  him  to  become  merely  a  great 
pavior  in  the  way  of  good  intentions,  he  would  have  done 
his  part  in  exposing  their  folly  in  so  totally  forgetting  how 
England  had  benefited  by  Louis  JVap^s  conduct.  This  latter 
part  is  a  true  addition  of  my  own  to  papa's  message.  I  was 
also  to  tell  you  that  he  agreed  with  you  too  in  your  detesta- 
tion of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  but  I  told  him  you  had  not 
said  you  detested  it,  but  that  it  was  too  painful  to  read ;  upon 
which  he  withdrew  his  message,  but  cherishes  a  hope  that, 
if  ever  you  do  read  it,  you  will  detest  it.  .  .  . 

Papa  does,  and  my  sisters  would — but  they  are  from  home 
at  present — join  me  in  kindest  regards,  and  hopes  to  hear  a 
good  report  of  you ;  and  believe  me  to  remain,  dear  Miss 
Mitford,  Your  sincere  friend, 

M.  De  Quincey. 

In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Partridge  dated  January  27, 1847,  Miss 
Mitford  asks,  "  Have  you  read  an  Oxford  graduate's  'Let- 
ters on  Art '  ?  The  author,  Mr,  Ruskin,  was  here  last  week, 
and  is  certainly  the  most  charming  person  that  I  have  ever 
known."  In  her  "  Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life,"  pub- 
lished in  1852,  she  says  that  Mr.  Ruskin  will  understand 
why  she  connects  his  name  with  the  latest  event  which  has 
happened  to  her,  the  necessary  removal  from  her  little  cot- 
tage at  Three  Mile  Cross.     Mr.  Ruskin  was  principally  as- 


Mr.  Ruskin.  309 

sociated  with  Miss  Mitford  towards  the  end  of  her  life,  and 
especially  after  she  was  incapacitated  by  a  fall  from  her 
pony-chaise.  His  kindness  cheered  her  closing  days ;  he 
sent  her  every  book  that  would  interest,  and  every  delicacy 
that  would  strengthen  her:  attentions  which  will  not  surprise 
those  who  have  heard  of  his  large  and  thoughtful  generosity. 

J.  Ruskin  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Keswick,  Cumberland,  Good  Friday,  1853. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — The  pain  of  deep  self  reproach 
was  mixed  with  the  delight  which  your  letter  gave  me  yester- 
day. Two  months  back  I  was  each  day  on  the  point  of 
writing  to  you  to  ask  for  your  sympathy — the  kindest  and 
keenest  sympathy  that,  I  think,  ever  filled  the  breadth  and 
depth  of  an  unselfish  heart.  But  my  purpose  was  variously 
stayed,  chiefly,  as  I  remember,  by  the  events  on  the  Conti- 
nent, fraught  to  me  with  very  deep  disappointment,  and  cast- 
ing me  into  a  depression  and  fever  of  spirit  which,  joined 
with  some  other  circumstances  nearer  home,  have,  until  now 
that  I  am  resting  with  my  kind  wife  among  these  quiet  hills, 
denied  me  the  heart  to  write  cheerfully  to  those  very  dear 
friends  to  whom  I  would  fain  never  write  sadly.  And  now 
your  letter  comes  with  all  its  sweetness  and  all  its  sting. 
My  very  dear  lady,  believe  me,  I  am  deeply  gratified  for 
your  goodness,  in  a  state  of  wonderment  at  its  continuance 
to  me — cold  and  unthankful  as  I  have  seemed — and  I  ear- 
nestly hope  that  in  future  it  may  not  so  frequently  have  to 
take  the  form  of  forgiveness,  nor  my  sense  of  it  that  of  re- 
morse. 

Nor  did  I  shrink  more  from  the  silent  blame  than  from 
the  painful  news  of  your  letter,  though  I  conjecture  that  your 
escape,  though  narrow,  was  complete — you  say  nothing  of 
any  hurt  received.  I  hate  ponies  and  everything  four-legged, 
except  an  ass  colt  and  an  arm-chair.  But  you  are  better 
and  the  spring  is  come,  and  I  hope,  for  I  am  sure  you  will 
allow  me,  to  bring  my  young  wife  to  be  rejoiced  (under  the 
shadow  of  her  new  and  grievous  lot)  by  your  kind  comfort- 
ing. But  pray  keep  her  out  of  your  garden,  or  she  will  cer- 
tainly lose  her  wits  with  pure  delight,  or  perhaps  insist  on 


3IO  Switzerland. 

staying  with  you  and  letting  me  find  my  way  through  the 
world  by  myself:  a  task  which  I  should  not  now  like  to  under- 
take. I  should  be  very,  very  happy  just  now  but  for  these 
wild  storm-clouds  bursting  on  my  dear  Italy  and  my  fair 
France,  my  occupation  gone,  and  all  my  earthly  treasures 
(except  the  one  I  have  just  acquired  and  the  everlasting 
Alps)  perilled  amidst  the  "tumult  of  the  people,"  the  "im- 
agining of  vain  things."  Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  see 
what  your  favorite  "  Berangers  "  and  "  Gerald  Griffins  "  do  1 
But  these  are  thoughts  as  selfish  as  they  are  narrow.  I  be- 
gin to  feel  that  all  the  work  I  have  been  doing,  and  all  the 
loves  I  have  been  cherishing,  are  ineffective  and  frivolous ; 
that  these  are  not  times  for  watching  clouds  or  dreaming 
over  quiet  waters,  that  more  serious  work  is  to  be  done,  and 
that  the  time  for  endurance  has  come  rather  than  for  medita- 
tion, and  for  hope  rather  than  for  happiness.  Happy  those 
whose  hope,  without  this  severe  and  tearful  rending-away  of 
all  the  props  and  stability  of  earthly  enjoyments,  has  been 
fixed  "where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling."  Mine  was 
not;  it  was  based  on  "those  pillars  of  the  earth"  which  are 
"astonished  at  His  reproof." 

I  have,  however,  passed  this  week  very  happily  here.  We 
have  a  good  clergyman,  Mr.  Myers,  and  I  am  recovering 
trust  and  tranquillity,  though  I  had  been  wiser  to  have  come 
to  your  fair  English  pastures  and  flowering  meadows,  rather 
than  to  these  moorlands,  for  they  make  me  feel  too  painfully 
the  splendor,  not  to  be  in  any  wise  resembled  or  replaced, 
of  those  mighty  scenes,  which  I  can  reach  no  more — at  least 
for  a  time.  I  am  thinking,  however,  of  a  tour  among  our 
English  abbeys — a  feature  which  our  country  possesses  of 
peculiar  loveliness.  As  for  our  mountains  or  lakes,  it  is  in 
vain  that  they  are  defended  for  their  finish  or  their  pretti- 
ness.  The  people  who  admire  them  after  Switzerland  do 
not  understand  Switzerland — even  Wordsworth  does  not. 
Our  mountains  are  mere  bogs  and  lumps  of  spongy  moor- 
land, and  our  lakes  are  little  swampy  fish-ponds.  It  is  curi- 
ous I  can  take  more  pleasure  in  the  chalk  downs  of  Sussex, 
which  pretend  to  nothing,  than  in  these  would-be  hills,  and  I 
believe  I  shall  have  more  pleasure  in  your  pretty  lowland 


Mr.  Talfotird.  3 1 1 

scenery  and  richly  painted  gardens  than  in  all  the  pseudo- 
sublime  of  the  barren  Highlands,  except  Killiecrankie.  I 
went  and  knelt  beside  the  stone  that  marks  the  spot  of 
Claver's  death-wound  and  prayed  for  more  such  spirits — we 
need  them  now. 

My  wife  begs  me  to  return  her  sincere  thanks  for  your 
kind  message,  and  to  express  to  you  the  delight  with  which 
she  looks  forward  to  being  presented  to  you — remembering 
what  I  told  her  among  some  of  my  first  pleadings  with  her, 
that,  whatever  faults  she  might  discover  in  her  husband,  he 
could  at  least  promise  her  friends,  whom  she  would  have 
every  cause  to  love  and  to  honor.  She  needs  them,  but  I 
think  also  deserves  them. 

Ever,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  believe  me. 

Faithfully  and  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

P.S. — I  ought  to  tell  you  that  we  have  sent  cards  to  no 
one,  or  most  certainly  this  formality  would  not  have  been 
omitted  with  Miss  Mitford. 

Miss  Mitford  says  :  "There  is  a  richness  and  transparency 
in  Mr.  Ruskin's  writing  that  has  scarcely  ever  been  equalled. 
Such  beauty  and  power  of  expression  is  not  to  be  found  in 
any  letters  which  I  have  received.  He  is  the  best  letter- 
writer  of  his  or  any  age." 

Mr.  Talfourd  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Oxford  Circuit,  Oxford,  March  6, 1853. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  send  you  by  post  one  of  a 
very  few  copies  I  had  printed  of  a  drama,  which  had  sup- 
plied materials  of  idle  labor  at  intervals  for  some  years,  as 
I  know  that  anything  in  the  form  of  composition  in  which 
you  have  wrought  so  much,  and  in  respect  of  which  we  have 
had  so  many  exciting  passages  of  life  together,  will  have  an 
interest  for  you  besides  that  which  I  know  you  would  feel  in 
any  effort  of  mine.  I  have  not  given  any  other  copy  away 
in  Berkshire,  not  to  any  of  our  mutual  friends,  except  our 
best  and  kindest,  William  Harness;  nor  has  it,  I  think,  been 


312  Mr.  Payne. 

seen  by  a  dozen  people,  so  that  it  is  a  very  private  sin  at 
present,  and  likely  to  remain  so,  unless  it  should  be  thought 
better  of  by  friends  than  by  its  author. 

I  hear,  with  great  sorrow,  that  you  are  still  suffering  from 
the  effects  of  your  accident,  and  therefore  I  hope  you  will  not 
incur  the  fatigue  of  acknowledging  this,  but  leave  the  slender 
merits  of  this  work  of  declining  age  to  be  discussed  when  I 
next  see  you,  which  shall  certainly  be  the  next  time  I  get  a 
day  in  Berkshire. 

I  dare  say  you  remember  how  prettily  Jackson,  the  new 
Bishop  of  Lincoln,  played  Hamlet — in  spite  of  our  dear  doc- 
tor's teaching.*  What  a  delight  to  him  the  bishopric  would 
have  been,  had  he  lived  to  know  it ! 

Believe  me  to  remain,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Ever  truly  yours,  Th.  Talfourd. 

Miss  Martineau  to  Miss  Mitford. 

The  Knoll,  Ambleside,  Jan.  25  [No  date — 1853  ?]. 

Dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  am  obliged  to  you  for  introduc- 
ing to  me  your  agreeable  young  friend.  I  have  seen  him 
once  ho'c,  and  I  am  to  see  him  next  at  his  airy  lodgings  at 
Longbrigg.  He  made  us  promise  to  visit  him  some  even- 
ing, and  we  hope  to  do  so  while  the  fine  weather  lasts.  The 
"  we  "  means  my  youngest  sister,  Mrs.  Higginson,  and  her 
children,  who  are  with  me  at  present.  Mr.  Payne  will  have 
us  all,  and  he  has  the  grandest  thing  in  all  the  neighborhood 
to  show  us — in  the  view  from  the  home-field.  He  is  kind 
enough  to  send  me  his  volume  of  poems  to-day,  and  I  must 
make  more  acquaintance  with  him  in  that  way  before  we 
meet  next.  He  has  every  appearance  of  being  in  good 
health;  and  I  trust  his  critical  period  in  that  respect  has 
passed. 

I  wish  he  could  have  given  me  a  better  account  of  your 
health.  I  fear  you,  with  your  love  of  eternal  nature,  and 
your  habits  of  country  roving,  must  feel  your  privations  very 
keenly.     But  I  see,  with  a  sort  of  sad  pleasure,  how,  when 

*  Dr.  Jackson,  the  present  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  was  one  of  Dr.  Valpy's 
pupils  at  Reading. 


Happinefs  in  0[d  Age.  3 1 3 

the  privations  of  age  come  on,  they  seem  natural  to  those 
who  have  to  endure  them,  and  can  be  better  borne  than  we 
should  before  have  supposed  possible.  As  for  me,  I  abso- 
lutely enjoy  the  symptoms  of  growing  old,  and  find  the  priv- 
ileges of  years  thus  far  out  of  all  proportion  to  any  incipient 
evil  that  has  occurred  as  yet.  I  am  somewhat  less  brisk 
since  I  turned  fifty  than  before;  but  I  am  abundantly  strong 
and  well,  and  the  tranquillizing  effects  of  the  sober  period  I 
have  reached,  are  very  sweet  to  such  a  lover  of  quiet  as  I 
am.  After  this  one  summer  I  do  not  mean  to  be  so  des- 
perately overworked  any  more,  as  I  have  been  for  some 
years;  and  I  have  a  strong  impression  that  I  shall  find,  as 
so  many  do,  that  the  decline  of  life  is  its  best  part.  No  fear 
of  any  of  us  being  idle,  any  of  us  who  have  health  to  work, 
for  the  world  cannot  afford  a  full  holiday  at  present  to  any 
of  its  laborers;  and  to  work  for  conscience,  and  not  too 
much  for  that,  and  for  health,  while  merging  one's  personal 
interests  in  wider  ones,  is  my  ideal  of  a  happy  decline.  If 
it  takes  place  in  the  country,  as  you  and  I  have  chosen  that 
ours  should,  it  is  all  the  sweeter. 

I  heard  a  good  deal  of  Mrs.  Browning  when  she  was  in 
London,  and  was  glad  to  find  she  keeps  up  her  improved 
condition,  frail  as  she  is.  I  wish  she  could  have  recovered 
from  her  illness  as  thoroughly  as  I  have  from  mine;  but 
her  recovery  thus  far  is  a  great  marvel. 

Again  thanking  you  for  your  note  and  its  object,  I  am, 
dear  Miss  Mitford,  Very  truly  yours, 

Harriet  Martineau. 

Miss  De  Quincey  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Mavis  Bush,  Lasswade,  Sept.  14,  1853. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — What  a  wretch  you  will  think 
me !  and  yet  I  don't  deserve  from  you  this  opinion.  I  have 
only  within  this  last  ten  minutes  had  your  note  given  to  me, 
and  that  not  until  I  had  waged  war  for  its  possession  with 
papa,  who  had  carried  it  off  into  "durance  vile,"  and  insist- 
ed upon  it  that  there  was  nothing  requiring  special  notice, 
that  he  could  tell  me  all,  and  such-like  stuff,  which  I  thought, 
with  Dogberry,  "  was  most  tolerable,  and  not  to  be  endured  ;" 

14 


314  De  Quijicey. 

so  I  kept  up  a  sort  of  starling  cry  for  my  letter,  and  lo !  my 
efforts  have  been  rewarded,  for  here  it  is,  the  kindest  and 
sweetest  note  possible. 

Mr.  Payne,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  both  for  your  account  and 
papa's  and  my  youngest  sister's  of  him,  neither  Florence 
nor  I  saw.  ...  I  was  very  sorry,  too,  on  another  account 
that  we  were  not  at  home — viz.,  that  Emily  told  us  that  papa 
was  in  very  bad  spirits  when  Mr.  Payne  called,  and,  when 
he  is  so,  it  requires  our  united  efforts  to  rout  him  out  of 
them  j  as  it  was,  Emily  said,  "  He  called  in  all  my  small  re- 
marks, made  to  suggest  things  to  him,  or  to  cover  the  gaps 
like  light  sovereigns."  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
had  to  do  the  honors  of  the  house  alone,  and  consequently 
she  has  great  misgivings  as  to  whether  Mr.  Payne  will  ever 
run  the  risk  of  falling  upon  the  tender  mercies  of  two  such 
wickeds  as  papa  and  she  again. 

Now  for  our  visit  to  Oxfordshire,  and  our  hoped-for  visit 
to  Swallowfield.  Emily  and  I  were  three  weeks  in  Oxon, 
and,  for  the  fortnight  we  were  at  Lord  Valentine's,  suffi- 
ciently near  a  railway  to  make  me  think  a  great  deal  about 
it,  and  at  one  time  it  was  half  arranged  that  some  of  our 
friends,  the  Annesleys,  were  to  take  me,  but  there  were  two 
fatal  obstacles  in  the  way. 

Four  days  after  I  reached  my  native  village  of  Grasniere 
I  was  taken  so  ill  that,  for  the  rest  of  the  four  weeks  I  was 
there,  I  never  left  the  house  till  I  came  home,  and  it  has 
sent  my  sister  Florence  and  I  home  in  a  ^^^xi^cX  furore  of 
disgust  at  everything  here,  and  rabid  to  go  back  to  West- 
moreland to  live,  for  our  native  air  did  not  do  us  any  dam- 
age, though  it  failed  to  do  all  the  expected  good. 

Will  you  now  let  us  hear  how  you  are ;  or,  better  still, 
send  Mr.  Payne  or  Mr.  Pearson  to  tell  us?  All  join  in  kind 
love,  and  believe  me  to  remain,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford, 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

M.  De  Quincey. 

P.S.  —  Pray  for  our  going  to  Westmoreland,  as  nothing 
but  some  such  convulsion  will  unearth  your  letter. 


De  Quincey.  315 

Miss  Mitford  says  that  a  friend  of  hers  went  to  spend  an 
evening  with  De  Quincey — evidently  Mr.  Fields,  who  edited 
his  works,  and  took  the  profits  to  him  to  Scotland  —  and 
found  him  "marvellous  in  conversation  ;  looking  like  an  old 
beggar,  with  the  manners  of  a  prince."  Margaret  was  De 
Quincey's  eldest  daughter,  and  was  delicate  in  health,  but 
managed  his  house  with  great  care  and  economy.*  The 
family  had  lived  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  at  Grasmere,  in 
a  cottage  which  had  previously  been  occupied  by  Words- 
worth. 

*  She  married  in  1853  Mr.  Robert  Craig,  a  manufacturer  in  Ireland. 


3i6  y.  G.  Whittier. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Letters  from  J.  G.  Whititer,  J.  Ruskin,  Tom  Taylor,  Dean 

MlLMANjAND  BaYARD  TaYLOR. 

Among  the  poets  honorably  mentioned  in  Miss  Mitford's 
"Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life,"  we  find  the  name  of 
Whittier.  She  calls  him  "the  most  intensely  national  of 
American  bards."  He  wrote  against  slavery  and  religious 
intolerance. 

J.  G.  Whittier  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Amesbury,  ist,  ist  mo.,  1854. 

My  dear  Friend,  Mary  Russell  Mitford, — Permit  me 
to  wish  thee  a  happy  New  Year !  I  am  quite  sure  that 
thousands  who  have  been  made  happier  by  thy  writings  will 
join  with  me.  I  wish  thou  wouldst  come  over  to  America, 
just  to  see  what  a  host  of  friends  thou  hast  made  for  thyself 
on  this  side  of  the  water. 

I  should  long  before  have  answered  thy  kind  note,  but 
for  the  lassitude  and  disquiet  of  illness,  which  often  for 
weeks  together  make  writing  of  any  kind  painful  and  diffi- 
cult. I  spent  the  latter  part  of  the  summer  in  the  wild  hill- 
country  of  New  Hampshire,  and  think  I  am  still  all  the  bet- 
ter for  the  inspiring  scenery  and  pure  mountain  air.  At 
any  rate,  I  can  again  use  my  pen,  and  write  newspaper  arti- 
cles for  the  National  Era;  and  now  and  then  I  indulge  in  a 
jingle  of  song,  a  specimen  of  which  I  enclose  to  thee,  which 
has  never  been  published.  I  know  the  subject  will  com- 
mend it  to  thee. 

I  also  enclose  two  short  poems,  commemorative  of  my 
sojourn  in  the  hill-country.  As  a  specimen  of  the  quieter 
mood  of  a  rough  reformer  and  controversialist,  they  may  not 
be  wholly  without  interest. 


"Atherton."  317 

Our  excellent  friend,  James  Fields,  announces  two  books 
of  thine  as  forthcoming.  Shall  we  have  a  new  series  of  the 
"  Literary  Reminiscences  "  ? 

A  little  volume  of  poems,  under  the  title  of  "Passion 
Flowers,"  by  Julia  Howe,*  wife  of  Dr.  Howe  of  Boston,  is 
attracting  much  attention.  I  hope  thou  wilt  see  it.  Tick- 
nor  and  Fields  publish  it.  It  seems  to  me  to  have  great 
merit. 

My  friend  Dr.  Holmes  is  lecturing  this  winter  on  the  Eng- 
lish poets — very  witty  and  genial. 

We  have  recently  had  a  delightful  visit  from  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson.  I  wish  thou  wouldst  meet  him.  He  is  a  man 
not  only  admired,  but  loved. 

I  need  not  tell  thee  that  I  should  be  exceedingly  glad 
to  hear  from  thee.  Thy  two  notes  are  among  my  choice 
treasures. 

Believe  me,  most  cordially  thy  friend, 

John  G.  Whittier. 

Mr.  J.  RusKiN  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Saturday  Evening,  April  22,  1854. 

Dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  have  just  finished  "  Atherton," 
to  my  great  regret,  thinking  it  one  of  the  sweetest  things  you 
have  ever  written,  and  receiving  from  it  the  same  kind  of 
refreshment  which  I  do  from  lying  on  the  grass  in  spring. 
My  father  and  mother,  and  an  old  friend  and  I,  were  talking 
it  over  to-day  at  dinner,  and  we  were  agreed  that  there  was 
an  indescribable  character  about  it,  in  common  with  all  your 
works — an  indescribable  perfume  and  sweetness,  as  of  lily 
of  the  valley  and  honey,  utterly  unattained  by  any  other 
writer,  be  it  who  he  or  she  may. 

I  perhaps  feel  it  the  more  from  having  read  very  little 
lately,  except  of  old  books ;  hardly  any  poetry  even  among 
them,  but  much  of  dry  history.  I  do  not  mean  dull  by  dry, 
but  dry  in  the  sense  of  faded  leaves,  the  scent  and  taste  of 
it  being  as  of  frankincense  instead  of  the  fresh  honey.  I 
am  sure  that  your  writings  will  remain  the  type  of  this  pecul- 

*  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe  wrote  several  poems  of  considerable  merit. 
Dr.  Howe  was  a  celebrated  philanthropist. 


3i8  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

iar  character  of  thought.  They  have  the  playfulness  and 
purity  of  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  without  the  naughtiness 
of  its  occasional  wit,  or  the  dust  of  the  world's  great  road 
on  the  other  side  the  hedge,  as  it  always  is  there.  I  don't 
know  where  one  can  get  a  perfectly  innocent  laugh,  ex- 
cept with  you.  All  other  laughing  that  I  know  of,  even  the 
best,  is  either  a  little  foolish,  and  therefore  wrong,  or  a  little 
malicious,  and  therefore  wrong  too.  But  I  think  my  five- 
minutes-long  laugh  over  Jacob  Stokes  "  passing  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  in  the  air  which  was  not  spent  in  the  water  " 
was  absolutely  guiltless  and  delicious';  as  well  as  another, 
softened  by  a  little  pity  for  the  hedgehog,  over  Marigold's 
behavior  to  that  incomprehensible  animal.  Landseer  has 
done  much  for  dogs,  but  not  so  much  as  you. 

I  have  not  read  the  succeeding  volumes  yet.  I  keep  them 
literally  for  cordials — the  most  happy  and  healing  when  one 
is  weary.  I  suppose  it  is  because  such  thoughts  are  always 
floating  in  your  mind  tjiat  you  yourself  can  bear  so  much, 
and  yet  be  happy. 

April  2T,d. — I  have  had  one  other  feast,  however,  this 
Sunday  morning  in  your  dear  friend's  poems  —  Elizabeth 
Browning.  I  have  not  had  my  eyes  so  often  wet  for  these 
five  years.  I  had  no  conception  of  her  power  before.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  wonderful  I  think  them.  I  have  been 
reading  the  "Valediction,"  and  the  "Years  Spinning,"  and 
the  "  Reed,"  and  the  "  Dead  Pan,"  and  "  Dead  Baby  at 
Florence,"  and  the  "  Caterina  to  Camoens  " — and  all  for 
the  first  time!  I  only  knew  her  mystical  things — you-nger, 
I  suppose — before. 

Tuesday. — I  kept  this  to  put  another  sheet,  but  can't  keep 
it  longer.  Yours  gratefully,  J.  Ruskin. 

Mr.  Tom  Taylor  to  Miss  Mitford. 

General  Board  of  Health,  June  29,  1854. 
My  dear  Madam, — Your  letters,  which  were  preserved  in 
the  journals,  are  still  in  the  volumes  where  I  found  them, 
and  I  have  neither  the  originals  nor  copies  of  them.  I  did, 
however,  in  my  editorial  capacity,  read  them  with  a  view  to 
see  if  they  threw  light  on  matters  it  might  be  important  to 


To7n  Taylor.  319 

know  for  my  purposes.  They  increased,  if  that  be  possible, 
my  respect  for  their  writer,  for  they  reflected  in  every  turn 
the  kindness  and  geniality  which  your  published  works  so 
abundantly  reveal. 

"  Our  Village  "  is  one  of  the  books  I  have  read  with  most 
pleasure,  and  I  take  most  pleasure  in  remembering.  I  am 
sure,  had  we  been  contemporaries,  we  should  have  been 
friends.  As  it  is,  you  have  no  truer  admirer.  ...  I  regret 
deeply  to  hear  that  your  health  is  so  shattered,  and  I  trust 
that  this  letter  will  relieve  you  from  any  anxiety  that  might 
add  to  the  sufferings  of  illness  on  the  subject  of  your  let- 
ters to  Haydon.  You  would  yourself,  I  think,  be  astonished 
to  find  how  little  they  reveal  of  that  "  irritability,"  which,  if 
it  be  the  characteristic  of  any  class  of  imaginative  writers, 
should  be,  above  all,  that  of  writers  for  the  stage,  as  I  know 
by  experience. 

Your  utterances  were,  above  all,  w'omanly  and  kind,  and  I 
do  not  suppose,  even  had  you  seen  the  letters  with  the  no- 
tion that  they  were  to  be  published,  you  would  have  found 
many  lines  to  blot.  Believe  me,  dear  madam,  with  the 
deepest  sympathy  and  respect, 

Most  sincerely  yours,  Tom  Taylor. 

The  family  wished  Miss  Mitford  to  edit  "  Haydon's  Life," 
but  she  excused  herself  as  not  being  sufficiently  conversant 
with  the  artistic  world.  She  afterwards  considered  that  Mr. 
Taylor  had  "  done  it  admirably,"  and  says,  "  I  suppose  there 
is  not  in  English  literature  a  young  man  so  truly  admirable 
in  mind  and  conduct." 

J.  RusKiN  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Geneva,  July  29,  1854. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  merely  write  a  single  line  to 
tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  hear  from  your  letter  to  my  father 
that  the  dramatic  works  will  so  soon  be  published.  I  am 
very  curious  to  see  them,  and  I  am  sure  by  what  you  say  of 
them  that  they  will  be  a  delight  to  us  all ;  also,  in  my  peculiar 
disposition  to  general  quarrelsomeness  with  i\iQ  public,  I  be- 
gin to  put  my  feathers  up,  like  a  fighting-cock,  in  the  hope 


320  Dramatic  Writing. 

of  discovering  something  especially  good  which  the  public 
have  not  yet  acknowledged.  I  am  sure  that  what  has  so 
much  of  your  own  feelings  in  the  woof  of  it  must  be  good  in 
the  abstract ;  but  whether  good  as  a  play  is  another  matter. 
I  wish  it  was  more' the  custom  to  write  in  a  dramatic  form 
without  that  subduing,  and  chiselling,  and  decorating  down 
to  the  dimensions,  and  up  to  the  sparkle,  which  is  needed 
for  the  stage  patience  and  the  footlights.  I  have  met  with  one 
example  of  this  kind  of  writing  which  has  delighted  me  be- 
yond measure.  You  know  everything  that  ever  was  written, 
I  believe,  but  in  case  by  accident  almost  inconceivable  you 
should  not  know  Octave  Feuillet's  "  Scenes  et  Proverbes," 
I  have  ordered  my  bookseller  to  send  it  to  you  instantly, 
thinking  that  perhaps  you  might  be  refreshed,  even  in  your 
present  time  of  extreme  pain,  by  the  exceeding  sweetness  of 
"  La  Clef  d'Or."  There  is  something  exceedingly  like  your 
own  thoughts — and  what  can  I  say  more? — in  one  of  the 
scenes  of  it — that  between  Suzanne  and  her  babe  at  the 
bridge,  and  between  her  and  her  husband  when  she  leaves 
him  settling  the  accounts  of  the  estate  with  what  he  thinks  a 
"flash  of  trio7?iphe  diabolique^^  in  her  eyes.  "  Redemption  " 
is  also  a  fine  thing,  but  perhaps  a  little  too  painful  and  ex- 
citing for  you  just  now. 

I  do  not  want  to  lose  this  post  and  must  say  good -by. 
You  do  not  know  how  much  you  have  done  for  me  in  show- 
ing me  how  calamity  may  be  borne. 

Ever  most  respectfully  and  affectionately  yours, 

J.  RUSKIN. 

The  following  unsigned  letter  is  in  the  beautifully  distinct 
handwriting  of  Bayard  Taylor. 

Bayard  Taylor  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Boston,  Aug.  I,  1854. 
My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — This  morning  our  kind  friend 
Mr.  Fields  left  at  my  house  your  precious  little  note,  which 
both  delighted  and  pained  me. 

To  know  that  you  are  suffering  who  have  done  so  much  to 
mitigate  the  sorrows  of  others,  to  think  that  we  sit  under  our 


English  Comforts.  321 

elms  at  Sudbury,  charming  away  the  swift  summer  hours 
with  "  Atherton  "  and  the  other  tales  that  "  hang  thereby," 
while  you,  who  should  be  with  us  to  see  what  happy  faces 
you  create  three  or  four  thousand  miles  away  from  Swallow- 
field,  are  lying  in  anguish  on  your  sick-bed — this  made  me 
unhappy,  and  I  wished  myself  in  England,  that  I  might  be 
near  you  and  do  personally  what  I  can  only  poorly  do  with 
my  pen — that  I  might  express  to  you,  by  attention  and  my 
cheerful  service,  how  much  I  feel  for  you,  and  what  pleasure 
it  would  give  me  to  add  my  own  mite  to  the  friendly  offices 
which  we  must  all  need  sooner  or  later. 

It  must  be  a  great  consolation  to  you  in  your  illness  that 
you  are  at  home  in  England,  with  its  wealth  of  comfort,  with 
all  the  appliances  that  soothe  the  hour  of  sickness,  and 
among  all  the  abundant  kindness  native  to  the  English 
heart.  Whatever  may  have  been  written  or  said  of  Italian 
sunshine,  or  the  genial  air  of  Provence  or  Andalusia,  Eng- 
land is  the  best  country  to  be  an  invalid  in.  Often  have  I 
thought  amid  the  most  smiling  scenes  of  southern  Europe 
what  a  wretched  thing  it  must  be  to  depend  on  the  casual 
or  purchased  kindness,  and  the  imperfect  household  arrange- 
ments, say,  of  Rome,  or  Nice,  or  Naples;  how  much  in  those 
or  similar  places  the  poor  patient  must  miss  the  thousand 
comforts  of  an  English  home!  And  then  again  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  out-ofdoor  and  haphazard  way  of  life  among 
those  people  of  the  South  unfits  them  to  be  good  nurses. 
Who  could  expect  in  their  cold,  cheerless  palaces,  with  all 
their  finery  and  poor  furniture,  their  pictures  and  brick-paved 
floors — who  could  expect  the  nice  beds,  the  neat  service,  the 
noiseless  motion  of  your  English  domestics  ?  I  feel  quite 
sure  that  there  is  ne'er  a  noble  house  from  Turin  to  Palermo 
that  contains  as  many  means  and  contrivances  to  relieve  the 
tedium  of  a  long  illness  as  your  own  room  at  Swallowfield. 

May  I  tell  you  a  pleasant  little  incident  in  which  you  are 
concerned  that  happened  to  me  a  week  or  two  since  ?  At 
an  agreeable  place  in  the  country,  Sudbury,  some  twenty 
miles  from  Boston,  where  my  sisters  go  to  spend  the  summer, 
and  I  my  Sundays,  there  met  us  by  appointment  two  or  three 
friends,  desirous  like  ourselves  of  escaping  the  noisy  patriot- 

14* 


322  '' Athertonr 

ism  and  gunpowder  of  our  national  holiday,  the  4th  of  July. 
Well,  we  sat  under  the  trees,  for  it  was  too  hot  to  walk,  and 
there  came  the  usual  question  of  "  What  is  there  to  read  ?" 
Now  I  had  carried  "  Atherton,"  i\\Q  presented  copy,  for  which  I 
have  to  thank  you,  and  as  it  was  a  day  or  two,  by  Mr.  Fields's 
kind  forethought,  in  advance  of  the  publication,  I  kept  it 
back  until  the  others  should  have  told  their  treasures,  in- 
tending then,  with  a  little  vainglory  and  great  confidence, 
to  produce  my  contribution  to  the  literary  stock  of  the  com- 
pany, and  "sair  surprise  'em  all."  So  Nelly  showed  her 
book,  and  Fanny  hers,  and  then  this  novel  was  brought  out, 
and  then  that;  and,  when  they  asked  what  I  had  for  them,  I 
answered, 

"  Something  better  than  any  of  you  can  boast :  I  would 
not  exchange  my  volume  for  a  library  of  such  as  yours," 

"  I  would  not  give  you  mine  for  it,"  said  a  lady,  and  there- 
upon a  dispute  arose. 

"Well,  end  it,"  quoth  I.  "As  you  are  a  lady,  you  must 
have  the  first  show,  and  then  you  shall  see  how  '  a  plain  tale 
shall  put  you  down.'  " 

"Let  the  company  judge,"  replied  my  pretty  rival,  and  out 
came — "  Atherton  !" 

There  were  so  many  "  Ohs !"  and  "  Goodys !"  and  so  much 
"  How  did  you  get  it?"  and  "Where  did  you  get  it?"  that 
they  almost  forgot  to  ask  for  mine ;  but,  when  at  last  my 
"  Atherton  "  came  forth,  there  was  a  little  laugh  for  the  mo- 
ment, and  between  the  two  copies  the  day  went  merrily  off 
to  the  entire  exclusion  of  patriotic  crackers.  For  that  very 
delightful  time,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  I  must  add  the  thanks 
of  the  whole  company  to  my  own,  and  I  will  leave  you  to 
guess  who  the  lady  was,  for  her  copy  also  was  a  gift  from 
you. 

Mr.  Ruskin  to  Miss  Mitford, 

Denmark  Hil],  Aug.  7,  1854. 
Dear  Miss  Mitford, — I  could  not  answer  your  kind  note 
when  I  received  it,  being  fairly  laid  up  at  the  time  in  pil- 
lows and  coverlets,  and  I  am  now  just  leaving  home  again, 
and  have  many  things  to  arrange  before  half-past  ten  (it 


Alpine  Flowers,  323 

being  now  half-past  seven),  so  that  I  have  but  time  to  pack, 
I  hope  safely,  these  two  flowers,  the  ranunculus,  the  hardiest 
and  highest  (and  most  scornful  of  all  common  fiower-com- 
forts,  such  as  warmth,  fellowship,  or  good  entertainment  in 
the  way  of  board  and  lodging)  of  all  Alpine  plants — a  loose 
stone  or  two,  and  a  drop  of  dirty  ice-water,  being  all  it  wants; 
and  the  soldanella,  of  which  the  enclosed  little  group  is  a  fair 
specimen,  which  is  equally  distinguished  for  its  hurry  to  be 
up  in  the  spring.  I  shall  be  happy  in  thinking  that  my  poor 
pets,  in  ray  exile,  have  at  least  the  consolation,  of  some  share 
in  Miss  Mitford's  regard.  I  was  delighted  to  hear  of  your 
most  enjoyable  little  trip.  I  have  sent  this,  however,  for  safe- 
ty to  Reading.  I  trust  you  will  now  have  better  weather  than 
hitherto. 

I  am  going  to  take  your  advice,  and  try  France  for  a  week 
or  two.  My  wife  desires  her  most  sincere  regards  (best 
thanks  from  me  for  your  kind  expressions  towards  her),  and 
my  mother  and  father  beg  to  join  theirs. 

Ever,  my  dear  madam,  believe  me  faithfully  and  respect- 
fully yours,  J.  RusKiN. 

Dean  Milman  to  Miss  Mitford. 

Caulew,  Penryn,  Cornwall,  Aug.  19, 1854. 

My  dear  Miss  Mitford, — Your  pleasant  note  has  been 
forwarded  to  me  here;  the  volume  of  plays  awaits  me  on 
my  return  home,  when  I  shall  hope  to  renew  my  acquaint- 
ance with  some  old  friends,  and  make  some  agreeable  new 
ones.     I  beg  you  to  accept  my  warm  thanks  for  both. 

I  speak  of  your  note  as  pleasant  from  its  calm  and  Chris- 
tian love,  though  I  could  wish  that  it  gave  a  better  account 
of  your  health.  You  have  indeed  many,  I  trust  the  best, 
consolations.  One,  I  am  sure,  you  may  have — the  satisfac- 
tion of  having  for  many  years  given  great  and  blameless 
pleasure  to  many  readers.  You  have  done  great  service  in 
your  day  by  awakening  a  sense  of  the  exquisite  beauties  of 
our  home  scenery,  and  the  delights  of  quiet  rural  life.  That 
is  what  so  many  may  enjoy,  if  they  will  enjoy  it;  and  you 
have  taught  them  how  to  do  so. 

I  write  of  those  compositions  which  are  peculiarly  your 


324  Consolations. 

own,  without  disparaging  your  higher  flights,  where  you  have 
many  rivals.  You  have  done  what  is  allowed  to  few,  struck 
into  a  path  of  your  own  ;  and  that  a  very  delightful  and,  in  its 
best  sense,  very  useful  one. 

I  cannot  help  expressing  my  friendly  wish,  and  in  all  this 
I  speak  in  Mrs.  Milman's  name  as  well  as  my  own,  for  your 
restoration  to  some  comfort  and  enjoyment:  if  it  is  deter- 
mined otherwise,  you  have  our  earnest  good  wishes  and 
prayers  for  better  things. 

I  have  heard  of  you  from  time  to  time  from  our  dear  friend 
Harness — a  friend,  indeed,  to  all  whom  he  loves.  May  I  beg 
you  also  to  remember  us  very  kindly  to  Lady  Russell? 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Miss  Mitford,  with  sincere  respect 
and  regard,  faithfully  yours,  H.  H.  Milman. 

P.S. — We  are  on  our  summer  holidays  in  the  west,  and 
hope  to  see  the  Land's  End  next  week. 

Bayard  Taylor  to  Miss  Mitford. 

New  York,  Sept.  15,  1854. 

My  dear  Friend, — I  can  scarcely  say  how  much  I  thank 
you  for  your  letter,  which  reached  me  yesterday.  I  know  how 
much  it  must  have  cost  you  to  write  at  all,  and,  if  this  should 
not  find  your  health  improved,  I  hope  you  will  not  feel  bound 
to  exhaust  your  strength  by  replying  to  it.  I  will  still  hope 
that  you  may  be  spared  to  your  friends  for  summers  to  come  ; 
but,  if  this  should  not  be,  the  cheerfulness  with  which  you 
anticipate  the  great  change  will  sweeten  its  approach. 

I  wish  I  could  say  something  that  could  cheer  the  weari- 
ness of  your  illness;  but  what  can  I  write,  except  w-hat  you 
must  already  know — that  you  have  many  true  friends  on 
this  side  of  the  ocean;  that  many  whom  you  have  never 
seen  think  of  you  with  esteem  and  affection,  and  that  their 
warmest  sympathy  is  with  you  in  j'our  afflictions  ?  If  I  should 
never  see  you  again,  it  will  be  a  happiness  to  remember  that 
I  have  seen  and  known  you  in  your  house  at  Swallowfield. 
Shall  I  ever  forget  that  stormy  afternoon  I  passed  in  your 
little  library?  I  then  hoped  that  our  meeting  was  but  the 
commencement  of  an  intercourse  which  I  knew  I  should 


Bayard  Taylor  s  Works.  325 

value  the  more  the  longer  it  existed ;  for  I  looked  forward 
then,  as  now,  to  visiting  England  frequently.  Your  kind- 
ness to  a  rough  stranger  like  myself  made  me  at  once  your 
friend,  and  I  shall  never  think  of  you  otherwise,  my  dear 
Miss  Mitford,  than  with  the  sincerest  friendship  and  esteem. 
Stoddard  and  I  speak  of  you  often  and  involuntarily,  as  an 
old  and  tried  friend — so  near  and  familiar  the  thought  of 
you  has  become.  You  will  still  live  thus  in  our  memories 
when  you  shall  have  left  the  world,  in  which  we  must  strug- 
gle a  little  while  longer. 

My  work  on  Africa  will  be  published  in  a  few  days,  and 
I  will  send  you  a  copy  by  the  first  opportunity.  It  may 
serve  to  divert  the  tedium  of  your  imprisonment.  I  have 
tried  to  fix  the  sunshine  of  the  East  on  its  pages,  and  per- 
haps a  little  may  be  reflected  into  the  glooms  of  your  Eng- 
lish October,  It  promises  to  be  very  successful  here,  six  or 
seven  thousand  copies  having  been  ordered  before  publica- 
tion. I  am  busily  engaged  upon  another,  to  be  called  "  The 
Lands  of  the  Saracen,"  embracing  my  travels  in  Syria,  Asia 
Minor,  Sicily,  and  Spain,  Three  volumes  in  one  season. 
You  see  I  am  not  idle,  although  I  work  somewhat  against  my 
will,  for  the  old  Oriental  indolence  returns  now  and  then. 

I  am  glad  you  like  the  idea  of  the  Oriental  poems.  It 
remains  to  be  seen  whether  they  will  be  recognized  as  suc- 
cessful. A  poetical  fame  is  usually  of  slow  growth,  and  cir- 
cumstances have  obliged  me  to  throw  my  prose  in  the  way 
of  my  poetry.  I  know  perfectly  well,  however,  that  literary 
fame  must  be  waited  for,  not  sought ;  that,  if  I  deserve  it,  I 
shall  surely  get  it,  and,  if  I  don't  deserve  it,  I  ought  not  to 
wish  it. 

I  have  seen  nearly  all  our  authors  this  summer — Irving, 
Longfellow,  Lowell,  Holmes,  Willis,  and  Bryant — but  they 
are  idling  at  present.  Stoddard  and  I  are  working  side  by 
side,  and  trying  to  keep  our  early  vows.'  There  is  happi- 
ness in  the  labor,  and  we  are  cheerful  and  hopeful.  Heaven 
grant,  my  dear  friend,  that  we  may  be  as  fortunate  as  you 
when  the  time  comes  for  us  to  cease  working — that  we  may. 
look  back  on  our  successful  achievements,  and  be  surround- 
ed by  as  many  and  as  faithful  friends ! 


326  Bayard  Taylor. 

But  I  fear  lest  it  may  tire  you  to  read  as  well  as  to  write, 
and  that  I  may  be  making  my  letter  too  long.  I  will  write 
again  soon,  if  I  can  say  anything  to  interest  you.  God  bless 
you  !  Ever  faithfully  your  friend, 

Bayard  Taylor. 

Bayard  Taylor,  the  well-known,  pleasant,  and  prolific 
American  author,  was  a  most  enterprising  traveller.  His 
earlier  journeys  were  accompanied  "with  knapsack  and 
staff,"  and  perhaps  one  of  his  most  remarkable  feats  was 
that  of  travelling  over  Europe  for  two  years  at  an  expense 
of  only  a  hundred  pounds.  The  work  above  alluded  to  is 
"A  Journey  to  Central  Africa,  or  Life  and  Landscape  from 
Egypt  to  the  Negro  Kingdom  of  the  White  Nile."  He 
spent  a  day  with  Miss  Mitford  at  Swallowfield  in  1852. 


Digby  Star  key.  327 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Mr.  Digby  Starkey. — Critiques  by  Miss  Edgeworth. — Letters 
FROM  Digby  Starkey,  Carleton,  Eliot  Warburton  and  Lord 
St.  Germans. — Proposed  Historical  Work. — Death  of  Eliot 
Warburton. 

One  of  those  literary  friends  whom  Miss  Mitford  valued, 
but  had  never  seen  personally,  was  Mr.  Digby  Starkey.  He 
was  accountant-general  in  Dublin,  and  relieved  the  monot- 
ony of  his  official  duties  by  amateur  authorship.  He  first 
contributed  some  short  articles  to  Chambers's  series,  and  af- 
terwards wrote  "  Anastasia,"  "  The  Dole  of  Malaga,"  "  Tom 
Twiller — a  Romance,"  "Theoria,"  and  a  dramatic  poem, 
bearing  the  somewhat  unpromising  title  of '*  Judas."*  He 
also  wrote  reviews  in  the  Dublin  University  Magazine. 

Miss  Mitford  considered  him  to  be  a  gifted  man,  and  told 
a  friend  that  "  he  was  said  to  be  one  of  the  pleasantest  men 
in  Dublin,"  and  also  that  "he  was  a  favorite  correspondent 
of  Maria  Edgeworth,  and,  having  lived  in  literary  widower- 
hood  since  her  death,  has  adopted  me  as  a  sort  of  second 
wife,  a  very  unworthy  one." 

Mr.  Starkey's  acquaintance  with  Miss  Edgeworth  seems 
to  have  been  due  to  his  sister-in-law,  Miss  Jephson,  who  was 
the  only  person  out  of  her  own  family  whom  Maria  Edge- 
worth  educated,  and  who  was  also  one  of  Miss  Mitford's 
oldest  and  dearest  friends.  At  Miss  Jephson's  suggestion 
he  sent  Miss  Edgeworth  a  copy  of  his  "Judas,"  hoping  it 
would  meet  with  her  approval,  and  in  the  note  accompany- 
ing the  volume  he  says :  "  If,  as  an  author,  I  could  suggest  a 
claim  to  your  notice,  it  could  only  be  found  in  the  circum- 

*  The  following  collection  of  letters,  made  by  him  and  Miss  Jephson, 
was  forwarded  to  me  for  publication  by  Mr.  Starkey  shortly  before  his 
death. 


328  Mifs  EdgewortJis  Critique. 

stance  of  my  being  an  Irishman  and  hazarding  the  publi- 
cation of  a  literary  work  in  Ireland,  both  of  which,  while 
they  are  discouraging  to  my  hopes  of  success  with  the  pub- 
lic, I  venture  to  think  may  obtain  the  indulgence  of  one 
whose  labors  have  been  so  eminently  patriotic;  and  who, 
in  advancing  the  interests  and  elevating  the  literature  of 
her  country,  is  not  ashamed  of  receiving  back  a  reflected 
lustre  from  the  land  she  herself  so  enlightens  and  adorns." 

Miss  Edgeworth's  critique  in  reply  exhibits  her  character 
in  an  amiable  light.  She  always  desired  to  take  an  optimist 
view,  and  to  praise  wherever  it  was  admissible.  Experience 
had  taught  her  what  a  loving  regard  an  author  has  for  his 
work,  and,  as  she  probably  doubted  whether  Mr.  Starkey 
would  reap  any  pecuniary  reward,  her  warm  heart  prompted 
her  to  say  something  that  might  be  some  kind  of  recom- 
pense. 

She  wrote  as  follows ; 

Rev.  R.  Butler's,  March  25,  1843. 

Mr.  Starkey  has  too  much  reason  to  be  surprised  and  of- 
fended by  my  long  delay  of  acknowledgments  and  thanks  for 
his  flattering  note  and  valuable  present.  But  I  am  just  re- 
covering from  a  severe  illness,  and  till  within  these  few  days 
have  not  been  able  to  give  so  much  attention  to  reading  as 
his  book  demands. 

In  truth,  I  was  quite  overwhelmed  by  your  overestimate, 
sir,  of  my  opinion.  I  never  was  in  the  habit  of  reading  with 
a  view  to  criticise;  but,  on  the  contrarj',  always  for  my  own 
pleasure  and  advantage  lent  myself  completely  to  my  author 
to  be  instructed  or  amused  ;  or,  if  in  poetry,  to  be  hurried  and 
transported  hither  and  thither  at  the  will  and  power  of  his 
genius.  In  the  present  case  I  am,  from  my  want,  my  total 
want,  of  learning  or  information  upon  the  subjects  of  which 
you  treat,  peculiarly  disqualified  for  giving  you  any  assist- 
ance by  my  remarks  or  criticism.  .  .  . 

So  far  as  I  can  judge  by  the  impressions  made  on  myself 
by  many  passages  in  your  poem,  it  is  impossible  to  doubt 
your  claims  to  high  poetic  merit,  and  to  that  highest  kind, 
the  test  of  genius,  i^ivetition — invention  both  of  new  charac- 


Mifs  EdgewortJis  Critique.  ifii^ 

ter,  and  of  new  and  appropriate  thought,  feeling,  and  inci- 
dent. The  character  of  Chevah  is  admirably  conceived  and 
ably  developed  for  your  main  purpose  in  this  drama.  I 
know  not  of  any  dramatic  incident  finer  than  that  of  the 
blind  father  of  Chevah  being  restored  to  sight.  The  scene 
where  he  meets  his  daughter  and  pours  out  to  her  his  joy, 
gratitude,  and  love  for  his  Saviour,  without  being  aware  that 
he  is  striking  her  fatally  with  remorse  and  despair,  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  touching  I  ever  read.  Her  swooning 
at  her  father's  feet  without  a  word  at  the  close  of  his  speech 
is  beyond  all  words  eloquent — the  best-timed  and  best-?/;£>- 
tived  swoon  I  ever  saw  or  heard  of  in  poetry  or  prose.  In 
general  I  am  not  fond  of  swooning,  but  this  of  Chevah's 
commands  my  pity;  and  though  she  is  but  one  of  the  frail 
daughters  of  her  namesake,  and  not  quite  as  good  as  she 
should  be,  yet  you  have  drawn  her  so  as  to  shield  her  from 
disgust,  and  to  make  her  appear  sufficiently  attractive  in 
her  struggles  between  virtue  and  vice,  and  in  her  infirmity 
of  passion  and  weakness,  just  to  answer  well  your  dramatic 
purpose. 

The  introduction  of  love,  as  a  temptation,  a  motive  for 
Judas  to  raise  him  above  a  mere  thief  in  the  first  place,  as 
we  had  always  been  taught  to  consider  him,  was  certainly  a 
bold  measure.  How  far  justified  by  Scriptural  authority  or 
suggestion  we  are  not  bound — at  least,  I  am  not  called  upon 
— to  examine,  disdaining,  as  I  most  justly  and  honestly  do,  all 
intention  or  power  of  learned,  much  more  of  Biblical,  criticism. 

The  moral  effect  assuredly,  as  well  as  the  dramatic,  is 
good — the  struggles  of  remorse,  the  tortures  of  conscience, 
are  always  moral  and  salutary  for  human  creatures  to  be- 
hold and  believe  in.  And  this  drama  has  powerfully  exhib- 
ited them,  and  impressed  their  reality  in  the  whole  character 
and  life  and  death  of  Judas.  The  speech  of  Satan,  **  What 
is  hell  ?"  is  the  finest  in  your  whole  drama — sublime !  I  am 
sorry  you  distracted  the  attention  from  it  and  weakened  its 
effect  by  those  horrid  prolonged  bowlings  and  songs  and 
sayings  of  the  inferior  demons  :  however  meant  as  personi- 
fications of  evil  conscience,  they  stay  too  long  and  talk  too 
much.     Length  is  a  fatal  enemy  to  the  sublime. 


330  "  Judas" 

But  while  thus  encouraging  the  poet,  and  expressing  her 
admiration  for  some  portions  of  his  worlc,  she  cannot  con- 
ceal her  astonishment  at  the  subject  he  has  chosen  : 

"  Why  you  took  Judas  under  your  protection,  and  made 
him  your  hero,  I  cannot  conceive ;  or  why  you  set  yourself 
such  a  task  beset  with  difficulties,  of  which  you  were  so 
fully  aware — as  your  thirty  pages  of  the  detail  of  these  dif- 
ficulties in  your  Introduction  and  your  notes  prove — I  can- 
not imagine,  and,  fortunately,  it  is  out  of  my  province  to 
inquire." 

Mr.  Starkey,  in  his  reply  to  this  letter,  gives  his  reasons 
for  selecting  the  subject : 

"  As  to  the  question  why  I  took  Judas  under  my  protec- 
tion, I  have  an  answer — because  no  one  else  would  have 
anything  to  do  with  him.*  It  is  my  constitution  and  tem- 
per to  be  moved  with  pity  when  I  observe  any  one  the  ob- 
ject of  general  outcry.  I  cannot  conceive  any  fellow-mor- 
tal being  utterly  beyond  the  pale  of  human  sympathy.  .  .  . 
I  could  not  shut  my  door  upon  him  when  all  the  world  was 
against  him,  and  he  knocked  so  loud  that  I  was  forced  to 
let  him  in  at  last."  He  adds  in  another  place  :  "Words- 
worth, in  writing  to  me,  did  not  hesitate  to  express  his  want 
of  sympathy  with  the  story  and  the  personages." 

In  1847  Mr.  Starkey  had  Miss  Edgeworth's  permission  to 
dedicate  to  her  a  volume  of  minor  poems.  She  sends  him 
her  opinion  of  these  in  the  following  words : 

Miss  Edgeworth  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

Edgeworthstown,  May  ir,  1847. 
My  dear  Sir, — I  feel  my  name  highly  honored  by  being 
prefixed  to  a  collection  of  poems  in  which  there  is  so  much 
originality  and  poetic  power — in  one  word,  genius. 

*  Mr.  Home  afterwards  wrote  a  miracle-play  called  "Judas  Iscariot," 
with  a  similar  desire  of  extenuating  Judas's  guilt 


Poems  by  Digby  Star  key.  331 

"  Let  me  be  seen !  could  I  that  wish  obtain, 
All  other  wishes  my  own  power  would  gain," 

is  a  stanza  which  is  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  beauty.     A  man 
of  your  talent  has  only  to  feel — let  me  be  known ! 

Your  volume  is  very  well  printed,  and  does  credit  to  your 
Irish  publisher,  yet  I  own  that  I  wish  it  had  appeared  in 
London,  to  catch  the  English  public  eye.  I  also  wish  it 
had  another  title.  "Theoria"  is  not  attractive  either  to 
learned  or  unlearned.  But  this  is  all  the  fliult  1  can  find, 
and  it  may  be  a  mere  caprice  of  my  own.  I  wish  you  would 
send  me  another  copy  of  your  book  to  Hatch  Street  for  me, 
with  these  words  written  in  the  title-page — 

To  Sir  John  Herschel,  Bart., 

From  the  Author,  at  the  request  of 

Maria  Edgeworth. 

I  will  send  up  a  letter  to  go  with  it. 

I  consider  Sir  J.  Herschel,  tJioiigh  a  philosopher,  to  be  a 
man  of  the  most  enlarged  mind  and  highest  genius  of  any 
of  the  many  men  of  abilities  with  whom  I  have  the  pleasure 
and  honor  to  be  acquainted,  and  I  may  count  him,  indeed, 
as  among  my  friends.  I  love  to  give  him  pleasure,  and  I 
know  I  shall  give  him  much  in  introducing  your  book  to 
him. 

The  poems  were  read  to  me  by  one  who  can  appreciate 
and  do  them  full  justice,  and  I  had  exquisite  enjoyment  in 
several  of  them.  "The  Bankrupt"  she  could  scarcely  read, 
or  I  hear,  without  tears — so  pathetic,  so  full  and  short.  The 
song  of  "The  Pen"  is  highly  poetical  and  original;  so  is 
"Vocal  Memnon."  The  "Poplin  Weaver"  is  beautiful. 
Look  in  the  Manchester  Society's  paper  (published  ages 
ago),  third  volume,  as  well  as  I  recollect — there  is  a  most 
interesting  case  in  point,  not  poetical  but  true,  which  would 
show  you,  and  prove  to  others,  that  your  poetic  painting  is 
true  to  nature,  and  modestly  colored — not  so  deep  a  color 
as  these  depicted  from  reality. 

I  do  not  like  your  translations  or  imitations  from  the 
German  so  well  as  your  originals,  and  I  beg  you  not  to  imi- 
tate German  poetry,  for  I  think  you  have  already  quite  as 


332  Carleton. 

much  of  German  genius  and  sentiment  in  you  as  is  good  for 
you.     Every  man  of  genius  should  be  careful  not  to 

"  Leap  his  fine  courser  o'er  the  bounds  of  taste," 

and  you  would  not  learn  that  sort  of  discretion  from  Ger- 
mans. I  am  afraid  I  shall  sink  in  your  opinion  by  this  ob- 
servation, but,  sink  or  swim,  I  must  be  sincere. 

Your  "  Words  for  Music,"  addressed  to  a  lady  going  to 
have  her  portrait  taken,  are  beautiful ;  so  are  your  "  Sighs 
and  Tears."  You  have  infinite  variety  in  your  powers  of 
poetry,  and  can  adopt  any  style  you  choose,  from  Milton  to 
Etherege,  Sir  W.  Raleigh,  or  Marlowe.  But  keep  your  own 
through  all,  and  believe  me  very  sincerely  your  obliged  and 
grateful,  and  truly  admiring  and  severely  judging  reader, 

Maria  Edgeworth. 

Digby  Starkey's  action  on  behalf  of  Carleton  was  worthy 
of  all  commendation,  prompted  as  it  was  by  the  spectacle 
of  a  man  of  talent  struggling  with  the  direst  poverty.  As 
many  persons  may  not  be  familiar  with  the  name  of  this 
author,  I  may  mention  that  he  was  a  voluminous  novel- 
writer  in  the  middle  of  this  century.  The  son  of  a  small 
farmer  living  at  Clogher  in  the  county  of  Tyrone,  his  first 
attempts  were  short  stories  of  Irish  peasant  life,  of  weddings, 
wakes,  courtships,  and  faction  fights.  Those  who  are  fond 
of  studying  the  early  stages  of  society  will  mark  in  these 
pages  many  primitive  customs  and  ancient  superstitions, 
while  the  narrative  sparkles  with  quaint  humor,  and  occa- 
sionally affords  us  glimpses  of  wild  and  romantic  scenery. 
Carleton  in  his  youth  had  a  strong  literary  bias,  and,  al- 
though educated  for  the  priesthood,  gave  up  the  prospects 
of  competence  which  it  offered,  and  went  up  to  Dubhn  with 
half  a-crown  in  his  pocket  to  be  one  of  the  hard-worked  and 
ill-paid  votaries  of  the  muses.  He  wrote  "  Fardorougha,  the 
Miser,"  "The  Fawn  of  Spring  Vale,"  "Valentine  M'Clutchy, 
the  Agent,"  "The  Black  Prophet,"  "The  Squanders  of 
Castle  Square,"  and  many  others.  As  he  moved  more  in 
town  society,  the  tone  of  his  writings  altered  :  they  lost  their 
original  simplicity,  and  became  political.    The  famine  years 


Car  lei  on.  333 

accelerated  the  change,  and  he  now  began  to  portray  the 
tenant  as  an  oppressed  man,  and  to  paint  the  landlord  as  a 
drunken  profligate.  He  gives  the  latter  the  name  of  Toper- 
toe,  and  says  that  he  cared  as  much  for  a  tenant  as  for  a 
horse  or  a  dog, "  a  circumstance  which  we  dare  say  several 
of  our  modern  landlords,  both  resident  and  absentee,  will 
consider  as,  on  our  part,  a  good-humored  stretch  of  fiction." 
Byt  it  must  be  admitted  that  this  was  part  of  the  strong 
coloring  which  the  novelist  generally  adopted,  and  that,  if  he 
represented  the  landlord  as  often  harsh  and  extravagant,  he 
added  that  the  tenant  was  often  improvident  and  dishonest; 
if  he  depicted  one  nobleman  as  vicious,  he  contrasted  him 
with  another  who  was  refined  and  honorable. 

The  persons  whom  he  especially  singled  out  for  repro- 
bation were  the  middlemen  and  the  sub-agents,  who  them- 
selves belonged  to  the  farming  class.  His  impartiality  was 
so  great  that,  though  a  Romanist,  he  occasionally  denounced 
the  priests,  who,  he  says, "  took  more  trouble  about  elections 
than  about  preparing  their  flocks  for  heaven."  "No  priest 
of  any  creed,"  he  maintains,  "should  be  suffered,  unless  at 
the  expense  of  his  ears,  to  take  part  in,  or  appear  upon  the 
hustings  at,  an  election ;  he  has  no  right  to  deliver  inflam- 
matory speeches  to  an  ignorant  and  excitable  rabble.  There 
is  no  greater  curse  to  Ireland  than  a  political  firebrand." 
In  his  preface  to  the  "Tithe  Proctor"  he  writes:  "I  have 
myself  been  a  strong  anti-Repealer  during  my  whole  life, 
and,  though  some  of  the  Young  Irelanders  are  my  personal 
friends,  yet  none  know  better  than  they  that  I  was  strenu- 
ously opposed  to  their  principles,  and  have  often  endeavored 
to  dissuade  them  from  the  madness  of  their  undertaking." 

Speaking  of  the  Tithe  War  he  says :  "  The  people  as  they 
always  are,  and  we  fear  forever  will  be,  were  mere  instru- 
ments in  the  hands  of  a  host  of  lay  and  clerical  agitators, 
and  no  argument  was  left  unattempted  or  unurged  to  hound 
them  on  to  the  destruction  of  the  Establishment.  The  vir- 
tues of  passive  resistance  were  inculcated  and  preached." 
These  words,  viewed  by  later  lights,  seem  almost  prophetic ! 

The  following  letter  was  written  by  Mr.  Starkey  on  be- 
half of  Carleton : 


334  Carle  tons  Pension, 

Mr.  Starkey  to  Miss  Edgeworth. 

Dublin,  July  6,  1847. 

My  dear  Miss  Edgeworth, — By  a  strange  coincidence 
I  received  from  Mr.  Carleton,  on  the  very  day  on  which 
your  valuable  letter  reached  me,  a  note  in  which  he  urged 
upon  me  the  execution  of  the  task  I  had  undertaken  for 
him — to  procure,  if  possible,  "  the  honored  and  great  name 
of  Maria  Edgeworth  "  to  his  memorial.  He  had  in  fact  be- 
come apprehensive  that  I  might  have  forgotten  him  or  you, 
neither  of  which  circumstances  were  likely  to  happen. 

I  have  not  yet  seen  him  to  read  to  him  the  invaluable 
testimonial  you  have  so  generously  written  for  him,  which 
must  produce  the  most  powerful  effect  with  the  Government, 
if  you  allow  me  to  make  use  of  it  by  sending  it  to  Lord 
John  Russell. 

I  am  disposed  to  think  that  the  pension  list  for  the  pres- 
ent may  be  full,  from  the  fact  of  two  considerable  annuities 
having  been  lately  granted:  one  to  the  excellent  Father 
Mathew,  the  other  to  the  family  of  the  late  Dr.  Chalmers ; 
but  Carleton's  claim,  urged  and  backed  as  it  now  is,  cannot 
ultimately  be  overlooked. 

Your  exertions  for  the  circulation  of  my  little  volume  ex- 
cite my  gratitude  in  no  small  degree.  Sir  John  Herschel's 
literary  qualifications  had  been  already  known  to  me  through 
our  common  friend,  Sir  William  Hamilton,  to  whom  I  have 
addressed  one  of  my  sonnets  in  "  Theoria,"  having  reference 
to  two  sonnets  of  his  (Sir  W.  H.'s)  written  at  Sir  J.  Herschel's 
residence  in  England.  Of  his  fame  as  a  philosopher  the 
whole  world  is  cognizant.  These  two  men  were  together 
last  week  at  Oxford.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Starkey  to  Miss  Edgeworth. 

July  16, 1847. 
My  dear  Miss  Edgeworth, — I  beg  to  send  you  the  me- 
morial on  behalf  of  Mr.  Carleton,  which  it  is  his  ardent  wish 
you  should  sign.  .  .  . 

I  never  saw  so  strong  an  impression  of  gratified  feeling  in 
my  life  in  a7iy  one  as  he  evinced  on  my  reading  to  him  your 


sponsors.  335 

letter.  He  really  could  not  find  words  to  convey  his  emo- 
tions, and  at  last  declared  that  he  was  sufficiently  repaid  for 
all  the  trials  and  troubles  which  had  made  him  an  author. 

What  an  enviable  power  your  genius  gives  you  of  admin- 
istering delight !  When  I  saw  poor  Carleton's  face  glowing 
with  pride  and  exultation,  I  felt  that  the  triumph  was  yours, 
and  of  no  ordinary  degree. 

In  October,  1847,  Miss  Edgeworth  had  consented  to  be 
godmother  to  Mr.  Starkey's  son,  and  he  wrote  her  as  follows 
upon  this  occasion : 

Mr.  Starkey  io  Miss  Edgeworth. 

Four  Courts,  Dublin,  Oct.  28,  1847. 

My  dear  Miss  Edgeworth, — The  truly  kind  and  flatter- 
ing way  in  which  you  have  accepted  the  office  of  sponsor  to 
our  little  boy  has  enhanced  the  honor  you  have  done  us  by 
consenting  to  our  wishes,  and  my  best  wish  for  my  son  is 
that  he  may  prove  in  life  worthy  of  the  great  name  designed 
for  him. 

Your  message  to  your  gossip,  the  Attorney-General,  I  de- 
livered to  him,  and  he  begs  leave  through  me  to  express  the 
gratification  he  feels  in  making  such  an  acquaintance.  I 
have  gone  beyond  your  instructions,  and  delivered  a  similar 
message  to  your  other  gossip,  Mr.  Mackinnon,  a  connection 
of  ours,  and  an  admirer,  as  well  as  a  cultivator,  of  literature. 
You  will  find  honorable  mention  of  him  in  Lockhart's  "Life 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott,"  he  (Sir  W.)  having  met  him  in  the 
Hebrides  many  years  ago,  on  his  own  island  of  Skye.  Mr. 
Mackinnon  is  now  classed  amongst  the  "literary  legislators" 
of  the  day,  and  his  works  on  public  opinion  and  civilization 
certainly  entitle  him  to  the  former  part  of  the  description, 
though  I  think  his  efforts  for  the  establishment  of  certain 
economic  reforms  are  the  truest  grounds  of  his  fame.  I  must 
transcribe  a  portion  of  his  letter :  "  I  feel  proud  of  being 
placed  in  juxtaposition  with  such  names  as  the  Attorney- 
General  of  Ireland  and  Miss  Edgeworth,  to  whom  I  beg  you 
will  offer  my  best  compliments  and  acknowledgments.  I  will 
seize  the  opportunity  of  the  introduction  you  have  mutually 


336  Carletofts  Pension. 

given  to  call  upon  both  my  co-sponsors  whenever  I  hear  they 
are  likely  to  be  in  town." 

This  I  know  to  be  no  idle  compliment ;  at  his  hospitable 
mansion  in  Hyde  Park  Place  I  have  met  many  distinguished 
persons  :  Miss  Porter,  Lady  Cork,  Disraeli,  Miss  Pardee,  etc. 

Let  me  now  say  a  word  about  the  letter  you  so  kindly 
transcribed  for  me  from  that  great  man.  Sir  J,  Herschel.  It 
came  upon  me  by  surprise.  I  scarcely  thought  that  one  so 
taxed  as  to  every  moment  of  time  could  or  would  have  found 
leisure  to  speak  of  "  Theoria."  .  .  .  My  reward  is  renewed 
every  time  I  hear  that  a  man  like  this  has  felt  what  I  have 
written.  And,  as  to  Sir  J.  H.'s  poetical  abilities,  I  had  heard 
enough  from  my  friend.  Sir  W.  Hamilton,  to  satisfy  me  of  his 
powers  both  of  judgment  and  performance. 

The  next  letter,  dated  June  26,  1848,  is  on  the  same  sub- 
ject. 

Mr.  Starkey  to  Miss  Edgeworth. 

My  dear  Miss  Edgeworth, — Our  exertions  have  been 
successful,  and  Carleton  is  on  the  pension  list  for  ;^200  a 
year.  I  hope  and  believe  that  he  feels,  as  I  do,  that  his  good 
fortune  is  in  a  great  measure  due  to  your  strong  and  gener- 
ous advocacy  of  his  claims,  both  in  the  body  of  the  memorial, 
and  in  the  letter  to  me  which  accompanied  the  memorial  to 
Lord  John  Russell. 

I  must  confess,  when  I  found  Carleton's  name  published 
as  that  of  a  feuilletoniste  in  the  Irish  Tribune*  I  gave  him 
up  for  lost.  This  paper  is  only  second  to  the  Irish  Felon  in 
anti-English  spirit,  and  I  feared  that  Lord  Clarendon  might 
insist  on  connecting  Carleton  with  the  politics  of  the  paper. 
Under  this  apprehension,  I  wrote  to  Lord  C ,  and  rep- 
resented to  him  not  only  the  helpless  state  in  which  an  au- 
thor who  writes  for  bread  is  placed,  when  that  bread  is  held 
out  by  a  "felon  "  on  one  hand  and  refused  by  the  loyal  sub- 
ject on  the  other,  but  also  the  importance  of  detaching  a 

*  A  national  or  Fenian  newspaper.  It  only  lived  through  five  num- 
bers, and  Carleton  only  wrote  in  it  three  chapters  of  "  The  Evil  Eye," 
which  was  not  a  political  story. 


Car  let  on  s  Pension.  337 

writer  of  Carleton's  powers,  who  can  affect  the  middle  classes 
so  widely,  from  a  connection  which  would  necessitate  the  ap- 
plication of  those  powers  to  a  dangerous  purpose,  and  of 
rendering  him,  first,  independent  to  follow  the  bent  of  his 
own  inclinations,  and  secondly,  inclined,  from  the  generosity 
of  his  own  nature  and  the  liberality  of  government,  to  employ 
his  pen  in  the  illustration  of  the  social  virtues  and  the  cause 
of  order. 

The  result  was  as  I  have  told  you :  Lord  Clarendon  at 
once  forwarded  Mr.  Carleton's  case  to  Lord  John  Russell 
(this  was  about  three  weeks  ago),  rather  a  reminder  of  the 
memorial  than  anything  else,  and  on  Friday  last  arrived  a 
letter  announcing  the  glad  tidings.  Next  day  a  letter  from 
Lord  John  Russell  conveyed  the  same  intelligence  in  a 
highly  flattering  way ;  this  day  Carleton  has  had  a  cordial 
shake  of  the  hand  from  Lord  Clarendon ;  and  this  day,  too, 
comes  the  news  that  the  ministry  are  out ! 

Mr.  Starkey  afterwards  wrote  political  works  under  the 
pseudonym  of  "  Menenius,"  and  sent  one  of  them  anonymous- 
ly to  Miss  Edgeworth,  who  in  acknowledgment  of  it  wrote  : 

Miss  Edgeworth  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

Edgeworthstone,  Jan.  9,  1849. 

Admirable  Menenius, — I  thank  you  for  sending  me  your 
"Luck  and  Loyalty" — a  catching  title,  but  it  needs  no  title. 
Its  own  merit  will  fix  and  hold  its  station  in  our  permanent 
literature — fine  literature  and  moral  literature  fit  for  the 
highest,  and  yet  adapted  to  the  comprehension  of  the  least 
cultivated  in  the  land. 

The  queen  and  her  lamp  and  her  lattice  will  in  full  light 
outlive,  outshine,  and  bear  comparison  unimpaired  with 
Burke's  "brightest  vision  that  ever  lighted  upon  earth." 

As  much  has  been  said  as  possible  of  the  example  of 
France  to  deter  from  disloyalty,  anarchy,  and  national  ruin. 
Now,  if  ever,  let  nations  learn  by  experience — if  ever  people, 
individually  or  collectively,  did  learn  by  experience  of  others, 
it  must  be  when  brought  horae  so  close  and  warm  to  their 
ov»'n  consciences  and  bosoms. 

'5 


338  Mifs  Edgeworth. 

I  rejoice  that  Menenius  resolves  to  write  no  more  under 
that  name.  He  has  not  only  that  which  has  been  called  the 
greatest  art,  "  the  art  to  blot,"  but  the  still  more  difficult  one, 
the  art,  the  power,  to  stop ;  and  to  stop  to  rest,  self-sustained, 
on  the  pleasurable  pre-eminence  with  head  cool  and  heart 
warm. 

Miss  Mitford  had  from  her  early  youth  read  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  works,  and  she  thought  that  authoress  had  done  more 
good  to  the  world  than  any  writer  since  the  days  of  Addi- 
son. "  She  shoots  at  folly  as  it  flies,  and  seldom  misses  her 
aim."  The  tiresome  parts  of  her  works  she  attributed  to 
her  "prosing  father."  Miss  Mitford  was  never  acquainted 
with  her,  but  she  once  met  her  at  an  assembly,  and  thought 
her  the  smallest  woman  she  ever  saw.  She  often  heard 
of  her  through  Mrs.  Hofland,  who  corresponded  with  both 
authoresses. 

Another  remarkable  person  who  read  and  admired  "  Me- 
nenius's  "  writings  was  Eliot  Warburton.  This  gifted  author 
was  at  the  time  contemplating  the  production  of  a  work  upon 
Ireland,  and  he  conceived  that  "Menenius"  could  render 
him  efficient  assistance;  accordingly  he  wrote: 

Eliot  Warburton  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

Rhwlas,  Machwylleth,  North  Wales,  July  ii,  1850. 

Sir, — I  presume  to  identify  you  with  the  author  of  an 
anonymous  publication.  "A  light  that  is  set  upon  a  hill 
cannot  be  hid,"  and  I  do  not  scruple  to  say  that  you  have 
thrown  more  light,  and  truer  light,  on  the  actual  position  of 
your  country  than  any  of  her  sons  have  ever  done — at  least 
in  my  humble  opinion. 

Having  read  the  tracts  of  "  Menenius  "  with  cordial  ad- 
miration, and,  I  hope,  with  appreciation,  I  desire  very  much 
to  be  known  to  their  author.  If  it  be  a  liberty  I  am  taking 
in  thus  addressing  him,  I  at  least  prove  my  belief  in  his 
worth  by  the  confidence  I  venture  to  place  in  him. 

I  have  some  intention  of  embarking  in  a  literary  under- 
taking connected  with  the  history  of  Ireland,  in  which  I 
should  greatly  desire  to  have  the  assistance  of  so  able  and 


Eliot  Warbiirton.  339 

eloquent  (by  no  means  synonymous  terras)  a  writer  as  "  Me- 
nenius."  My  views  in  the  above  history  would,  I  hope,  be 
patriotic,  but  (I  am  an  Irish  landlord)  profit  would  also  be 
a  consideration. 

If  "Menenius"  will  do  me  the  honor  to  write  to  me,  I 
will  explain  myself  further. 

His  very  obedient  servant, 

Eliot  Warburton. 

Mr.  Starkey  wrote  to  express  his  willingness  to  co-operate 
in  the  proposed  work,  and  Eliot  Warburton,  in  a  second  let- 
ter, developed  his  scheme  more  completely. 

Eliot  Warburton  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

Rhwlas,  Machwylleth,  North  Wales,  July  22, 1850. 

My  dear  Sir, — I  am  very  much  gratified  by  the  contents 
and  kind  tone  of  your  letter,  and  congratulate  myself  on 
having  obtained  such  an  ally. 

The  history  of  Ireland  has  not  only  been  ///-written,  but 
so  repulsively  written  by  all  those  who  have  attempted  the 
subject,  that  the  very  title  would  now  be  unpopular.  At  the 
same  time,  among  the  clouds  that  are  clearing  away,  those 
from  her  history  should  be  dispersed,  as  far  as  the  patriot 
can  do  it.  I  propose  a  "Viceregal  Dynasty  of  Ireland — 
Personal  and  Historical,"  or  some  such  title.  I  think  there 
is  a  healthy  appetite — though  too  easily  satisfied — in  this 
country  for  obtaining  information,  especially  when  gilded  by 
novelty  and  originality.  From  what  I  already  know  of  the 
ante-Norman  and  Plantagenet  periods  of  Ireland's  history 
it  appears  to  me  that  a  picturesque  and  striking  sketch 
might  be  made  of  it — say  half  an  octavo  volume,  the  other 
half  to  run  up  to  the  deposition  of  that  caitiff,  James  II.  I 
think  I  could  manage  so  far  with  a  little  assistance. 

What  I  would  propose  to  you  would  be  the  continuance 
to  Lord  Clarendon's  reign.  As  he  is  a  personal  and  kind 
friend  of  mine,  I  should  like  to  have  a  "turn  "  at  him  as  to 
his  personal  career,  which  my  acquaintance  with  his  family 
would  enable  me  to  do. 

You  will  see  that  I  have  left  you  by  far  the  most  arduous 


340  History  of  Ireland. 

part  of  the  work,  the  post  of  honor.  But,  from  you-r  peculiar 
powers,  you  are  far  better  able  to  grapple  with  the  difficulties 
that  will  beset  you.  Your  manly  and  nervous  style  will  never 
be  degraded  into  the  pettiness  of  biography,  while  you  will 
be  able  to  appreciate  and  project  with  strong  relief  what  is 
noble  in  character  and  relevant  in  politics. 

I  propose  two  moderate  octavo  volumes,  with  portraits  of 
King  John  and  Lord  Clarendon  as  first  and  last  of  the  mock 
dynasty;  also  a  map  of  ante-Norman  Ireland,  and  of  Ireland 
as  she  now  is.  Many  English  readers  could  more  easily 
follow  a  narrative  of  operations  in  Afghanistan  than  in  Con- 
naught. 

There  is  one  matter  which  I  regret.  I  should  have  been 
very  glad  to  have  published  an  Irish  work  in  Ireland,  and  I 
can  understand  that  Mr.  Hodges  has  some  valuable  MSS. 
But,  alas  !  London  is  the  only  remunerative  market.  I  have 
a  few  valuable  MSS.  intrusted  to  me,  but  of  course  it  is 
important  to  obtain  as  many  as  possible  relating  to  the 
Volunteer,  the  Rebellion,  the  Union,  and  the  Catholic  Eman- 
cipation periods.  Eliot  Warburton, 

In  a  letter  dated  July  29, 1850,  after  further  discussing  the 
proposed  work,  he  adds  : 

"And  here  I  may  observe,  en parenihese,  with  regard  to 
politics — I  hate  the  very  word — that  hereditarily  a  Tory, 
and  by  reading  and  observation  a  good  deal  chastened  in 
that  creed,  I  shall  endeavor  to  write  my  part  of  Ireland  in 
the  spirit  of  the  old  song — 

'  I  ask  not  be  ye  Whig  or  Tory, 

For  Commonwealth  or  Right  Divine, 
Say,  dear  to  you  is  England's  glory? 
Then — gie's  a  hand  o'  thine.' 

Your  own  aphorism  is  more  practical,  and  as  expressive  of 
my  ambition — '  truth  in  facts,  and  philosophy  in  deduction.* 
"As  to  unity  of  style,  that  is  impossible.  I  think  the  va- 
riety will  be  acceptable  in  every  way  to  the  reader.  You 
will  enter  on  a  new  era  at  a  time  when  history  becomes 
more  important  and  earnest.  It  is  only  just  to  your  fame 
that  your  style  should  be  perceived  and  appreciated.    I  can 


History  of  Ireland,  341 

say  but  little  for  myself  in  other  respects,  but  I  can  faith- 
fully assert  that  you  will  find  in  me  no  jealous  compeer,  nor 
among  your  readers  a  more  hearty  appreciator. 

"  I  think  Macaulay  is  a  better  model  for  us  than  either 
Campbell  or  Strickland.  Generally,  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  our  viceroys  were  not  men  of  leading  mind,  and  too 
often  were  only  shelved  into  their  high  power.  We  must 
rather  reverse  the  pretty  saying — 

'  They're  the  wreath  of  pearl,  and  I 
Am  but  the  cord  on  which  they  lie.' 

We  may  string  our  history  on  them,  I  think,  giving  such 
matters,  even  of  the  most  famous,  as  may  make  ours  a  use- 
ful book  of  reference,  and  only  entering  into  particulars  of 
such  lives  as  interest  the  world  at  large.  I  think  Moore's 
first  volume  is  very  pleasant  reading  for  a  class  (of  whom  I 
am  one),  but  his  last  three  are — 1" 

Warburton  concludes  this  letter  by  inviting  Starkey  to 
pay  him  a  visit  in  Wales,  and  adds : 

"  I  hope  you  are  an  angler,  and  that  by  the  24th  prox.  we 
shall  have  some  pretty  good  salmon-fishing." 

Writing  again  about  their  literary  project  on  August  23, 
he  says : 

"  I  think  we  should  be  sure  of  full  reviews  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, and  as  I  know  most  of  our  cabinet  ministers, 
we  should  have  a  good  chance  of  being  talked  about  (I 
mean  our  book  would)  among  public  men  and  in  Parlia- 
ment, which  is  the  best  of  puff." 

On  the  29th  of  August,  1850,  we  find  him  still  expecting 
Mr.  Starkey  on  a  visit.     He  writes  of  their  work  : 

"  The  difficulties  you  think  of  are  difficulties,  and  such  as 
strike  the  fire  out  of  flint,  and  illumine  the  page  that  a  dull 
author  would  leave  dark.  But  of  this  and  all  other  such 
things  we  can  talk  upon  a  sunny  bench  that  overlooks  the 
valley  of  the  Dovy.  I  hope  you  can  smoke  a  pipe  of  Lata- 
kia. 


342  Lord  St.  Germans. 

"You  will  kindly  remember  that  we  are  en  bivouac,  and 
can  only  offer  mountain  fare  and  cottage  accommodation." 

On  September  i6  he  writes  to  acknowledge  Starkey's  send- 
ing him  his  collection  of  poems. 

"I  give  you  a  thousand  thanks  for  your  poems,  in  my 
wife's  name  and  my  own.  I  have  as  yet  only  glanced  at 
them,  and  filled  a  breakfast-table's  eyes  with  the  touching 
stanzas  on  the  '  Poplin  Weaver.'  I  keep  the  fuller  perusal 
for  a  bonne  bouche  for  leisure  hours,  now  few  and  far  between." 

In  November  we  find  them  making  slow  progress  with 
their  "magnum  opus,"  to  which  Warburton  says  he  cannot 
devote  his  whole  attention.  He  encloses  the  following  let- 
ter from  Lord  St.  Germans  : 

Lord  St.  Germans  to  Eliot  Warburton. 

Dover  Street,  Nov.  25,  1850. 

My  dear  Mr.  Warburton,  —  I  received  a  letter  this 
morning  from  Lord  Braybrooke,  from  which  the  following 
is  an  extract : 

"  None  of  the  papers  relating  to  Lord  Cornwallis's  official 
connection  with  Ireland  ever  came  into  my  hands,  nor  has 
anybody  been  able  to  tell  me  what  has  become  of  them. 
The  late  Lord  Sydney  seemed  to  think  that  Lord  Corn- 
wallis  was  too  cautious  a  man  to  leave  behind  him  any 
record  of  the  measures  by  which  the  Union  was  brought 
about,  and  always  fancied  that  he  had  destroyed  those 
papers. 

"I  had  intended  to  put  some  questions  about  them  to 
Sir  Edward  Littledale  (Lord's  C.'s  private  secretary),  but 
he  died  long  ago,  and  before  I  had  any  opportunity  of  ap- 
plying to  him. 

"  Poor  Charles  Wynn,  who  was  at  the  Home  Office  at  the 
time  of  the  Union,  told  me  that  if  Lord  Cornwallis's  papers 
were  extant  they  would  be  the  most  curious  records  ever 
collected.     He  spoke  of  those  which  related  to  Ireland." 

It  is  a  great  disappointment  to  me  to  find  that  the  papers 
in  question  are  not  only  not  in  Lord  Braybrooke's  posses- 


Lord  St.  Germatis.  343 

sion,  but  that  they  are  probably  not  even  in  existence.  I 
had  flattered  myself  that  I  should  be  able  to  procure  for 
you  some  very  valuable  materials  for  your  work.  I  knew 
that  Lord  Cornwallis's  Indian  papers  were  at  Audley  End, 
and  I  thought  that  his  Irish  ones  were  there  also. 

Believe  me,  with  best  wishes  for  the  success  of  your  un- 
dertaking, always  yours  very  faithfully,  St.  Germans. 

Lord  St.  Germans  also  wrote  expressing  his  approval  of 
Mr.  Starkey's  poems,  which  Warburton  seems  to  have  sent 
him. 

Unhappily  for  the  authors  and  the  public,  the  proposed 
history  of  the  Irish  Viceroys  was  not  destined  to  appear. 
The  publishers  did  not  think  it  would  prove  remunerative. 
Colburn  wrote  to  say  that  he  did  not  consider  that  the  work 
would  be  generally  attractive.  "The  Irish,"  he  observes, 
"spend  less  on  books  than  the  Scotch,  and  English  people 
with  few  exceptions  do  not  take  any  real  interest  in  the  sub- 
ject of  Ireland." 

When  the  next  letter  was  written,  the  undertaking  was 
practically  abandoned. 

Eliot  Warburton  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

II  Rutland  Gate,  Jan.  2,  1851. 

My  dear  Starkey, — Your  letter  was  a  great  relief  to 
my  mind.  It  will  be  a  still  greater  one  when  I  hear  that 
you  have  mentioned  to  Lord  Clarendon  that  our  joint  em- 
prise is  for  the  present  at  an  end.  All  historic  men  like  to 
have  their  times  written  of  by  fair  and  not  antagonistic 
men. 

By  all  means  I  would  have  you  persevere  as  you  have 
begun.  The  modern  history  of  Ireland  is  still  to  be  written, 
and  must  find  readers. 

I  wish  you  were  here  to  dine  to-day — Lytton  Bulwer  and 
Eothen  dine  with  us. 

In  May  we  find  Mr.  Warburton  inviting  Mr.  Starkey  to 
pay  him  a  visit  near  Melrose,  in  Scotland,  and  on  Decem- 
ber 15  he  writes  from  the  Athenaeum : 


344  Eliot  Warburton. 

"  I  am  grieved  to  hear  of  your  hope  deferred,  and  am 
gratified  by  your  eloquent  resume  of  American  travellabilia. 
As  to  the  former,  if  the  X  is  a  true  man,  it  must  be  all  right 
with  you.  If  he  be  not,  the  sooner  your  golden  faith  is 
turned  into  another  channel  the  better. 

"  My  western  wanderings  are  in  a  most  undefined  em- 
bryoism  just  now.  At  all  events,  I  shall  not  leave  England 
until  the  end  of  this  year,  or  the  second  month  of  the  next. 

"  It  is  quite  true  that  the  awful  array  of  writers  you  sug- 
gest is  before  me  in  the  field — but  where  are  they  not? 
'  Pereant  qui  nostra  ante  nos  dixerint !'  Thanks,  however, 
to  the  illiterateness  and  bad  memory  of  the  world,  the  afite- 
dixeritits  are  not  much  in  the  way. 

"I  came  here  for  the  last  few  days  of  the  Exhibition. 
Paxton  being  a  friend  of  mine,  I  was  enabled  to  see  the 
close  of  the  mighty  pageant  to-day.  It  died  a  Christian's 
death  in  prayers  and  external  dreariness." 

Shortly  after  this  Warburton  was  staying  with  Bulwer 
Lytton  at  Knebworth,  and  on  the  ist  of  January  he  wrote  a 
hasty  line  to  say  that  he  was  off  next  day  for  the  West  In- 
dies "for  three  or  four  months'  cruise." 

He  had  been  selected  by  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Junc- 
tion Company  to  come  to  a  friendly  understanding  with  the 
tribes  of  Indians  inhabiting  the  Isthmus  of  Darien,  and  it 
was  his  intention  also  to  obtain  some  information  as  to  the 
climate,  resources,  and  topography  of  that  regiort.  He  ac- 
cordingly took  a  passage  on  board  the  Amazon — a  splendid 
vessel — sister-ship  to  the  Demara,  which,  equally  ill-starred, 
was  wrecked  in  the  Avon  immediately  after  she  had  been 
launched. 

Some  of  the  details  of  the  dreadful  sequel  may  be  interesting : 

"  The  Amazon  left  her  moorings  on  Friday,  January  the 
2d.  Owing  to  the  heated  state  of  the  new  engines,  the 
ship  was  stopped  off  Portland  Bill  on  Friday  night,  and 
again  on  Saturday.  On  the  latter  occasion  one  of  the  pas- 
sengers, a  Mr.  Nielson,  expressed  alarm  at  the  heat  of  the 
beams  near  the  funnel.     He  heard  that  the  partition  of  the 


Burning  of  the  ^'Amasott"  345 

grease-room,  where  tow  and  tallow  were  stored,  was  very 
hot,  and  also  the  wood  near  the  steam-chest.  From  this 
and  the  screaming  of  the  machinery  he  concluded  that  there 
was  some  uneven  bearing.  They  were  then  about  a  hun- 
dred miles  beyond  Scilly.  At  a  quarter  before  one  on  Sun- 
day morning  smoke  was  seen  issuing  from  the  hatchway 
on  the  fore -side  of  the  foremost  funnel.  The  hose  was 
brought  to  play,  but  without  effect,  and  shortly  afterwards 
the  fire  burst  forth.  The  sea  was  rough,  and  as  the  wind 
was  blowing  half  a  gale  from  the  S.W.  the  flames  were 
driven  aft.  It  was  impossible  to  stop  the  engines,  but 
some  determined  men  at  the  helm  turned  her  before  the 
wind,  a  change  which  swept  off  the  unfortunate  people  in 
the  bow. 

"  The  vessel  now  flew  along  at  great  speed  like  a  sheet  of 
fire,  the  pinewood  crackling  with  deafening  noise.  Mr. 
Kilkelly,  one  of  the  survivors,  told  my  friend  Mr.  Harrison 
that  he  had  been  asleep,  and  on  awaking  was  surprised  to 
find  the  cabin  empty.  He  called  for  the  steward,  and  was 
told  that  the  ship  was  on  fire.  Rushing  up  the  companion 
through  smoke  and  flame,  he  gained  the  deck.  The  scene 
was  appalling :  some  were  running  about  screaming,  others 
were  on  their  knees  in  prayer.  Two  gentlemen  came  pant- 
ing up  from  the  after-cabins  all  in  flames,  and  fell  on  the 
deck.  A  lady  and  gentleman  in  nothing  but  night-clothes, 
which  were  on  fire,  came  up  with  their  arms  round  each 
other,  and,  going  to  one  of  the  hatches,  fell  together  into 
the  furnace  below.  Meanwhile,  those  who  were  less  burnt 
and  more  calm  tried  to  avail  themselves  of  the  boats.  The 
mail-boat  was  let  down  with  twenty-five  people  in  her,  but 
was  immediately  swamped,  and  all  perished.  Sixteen  men 
succeeded  in  clearing  away  with  a  port  lifeboat.  One  of 
the  starboard  lifeboats,  in  which  Mr.  Nielson  was,  and  an- 
other boat,  apparently  a  cutter,  which  Miss  Smith  coura- 
geously entered,  also  got  safely  off.  As  the  pinnace  was  being 
lowered,  a  sea  struck  her  and  unhooked  the  bow-tackle ; 
the  fore  end  fell  down,  and  all  but  two  men  were  precipi- 
tated into  the  sea.  Afterwards  they  righted  the  boat.  This 
seems  to  have  been  that  in  which  Mr.  Glennie  was  saved. 

15* 


346 


Burtiiftg  of  the  ^^  Amazon^" 


Thus  four  boats  out  of  the  nine  got  off.  The  flames  from 
the  ship  made  it  as  light  as  day,  and  they  could  from  the 
boats  even  see  the  blisters  on  the  faces  of  the  men  on  deck. 
Just  at  this  time  a  Dutch  galliot  passed,  but  such  was  the 
noise  of  the  fire  and  of  the  lashing  waves  that  the  crew 
could  not  hear  the  shouts  of  the  men  in  the  port  lifeboat, 
though  they  took  up  Miss  Smith's  and  Mr.  Glennie's  boats. 
Afterwards  the  engines  of  the  Amazo?t  stopped ;  at  four 
o'clock  A.M.  the  masts  fell  overboard ;  at  five  the  magazine 
exploded,  scattering  the  embers  to  a  great  distance,  and 
twenty  minutes  afterwards  the  ship  sank  with  her  funnels 
red-hot.  The  two  lifeboats  were  eventually  saved,  but  out 
of  one  hundred  and  sixty-three  persons  on  board  the  ship 
one  hundred  and  seventeen  perished. 

"Among  the  papers  sent  me  by  Mr.  Starkey  I  find  the 
following  interesting  account,  written  by  the  Rev.  Acton 
Warburton  soon  after  the  intelligence  of  the  loss  of  the 
Amazon  arrived,  and  while  the  fate  of  his  brother  was  un- 
known : 

" '  This  is  the  way  the  boats  were  arranged,  and  this  the 
manner  in  which  they  were  occupied  according  to  the 
evidence  : 


Lifeboat  on  sponson 
(bumedj. 


Lt  GryUs's  lifeboat. 


Mail-boat,  unaccounted 
for. 


Miss  Smith's  boat 
(Brest). 


Lifeboat  on  sponson 
/burned). 


Nielsen's  lifeboat,  the 
first  picked  up. 


Mr.  Glennie's  boat 
(Brest). 


Gig,  unaccounted  for, 
W         supposed  stove  in — 
Glennie  says  not. 


Dingey. 

"  *  Glennie's  evidence  is  the  most  reliable.     He  was  per- 
fectly calm,  and  everything  he  has  stated  has  been  remark- 


Burning  of  the  "  A  masoTiJ*  347 

ably  confirmed  by  events.  Read  his  letter.  When  he  was 
dropping  down  into  his  boat  he  saw  Eliot,  completely  dressed, 
walking  towards  the  starboard  sponson  lifeboat,  which  some- 
body had  said  was  burning;  but  Glennie  is  not  sure  that 
it  was.  When  Glennie  reached  the  boat  the  steamer  was 
going  fast,  and  he  was  swept  away  about  two  hundred 
yards  in  the  space  of  a  minute  or  two.  He  then  looked 
again,  and  saw  Eliot  had  returned,  and  was  standing  beside 
the  captain.  He  says  that  he  was  perfectly  collected,  and 
his  motions  indicated  self-command,  and  a  power  to  make 
any  effort  for  his  own  safety.  Thank  God  he  was  seen 
where  we  knew  he  would  be,  in  the  place  and  attitude  of  the 
brave !  We  all  knew  that,  as  long  as  there  was  woman  or 
child,  or  indeed  man,  to  be  saved,  he  would  not  think  of 
himself. 

"'Glennie's  attention  was  then  directed  to  his  own  boat, 
and  when  he  again  looked  at  the  steamer,  after  the  lapse  of 
half  an  hour,  there  was  nobody  on  the  main  deck.  .  .  .  He 
mentioned  that  he  had  pulled  benches  aft  for  the  purpose 
of  making  a  raft,  and  he  had  no  doubt  the  captain  and  Eliot, 
if  everything  else  failed,  would  have  made  one.  I  saw  two 
of  these  benches,  which  had  been  picked  up  off  the  Lizard 
Point  and  brought  to  London  Bridge.  They  were  tied  back 
to  back  to  make  a  raft.  Glennie  recognized  them  as  having 
been  on  the  deck  of  the  Amazon,  and  observed  that  their 
having  been  tied  together  showed  his  views  were  right  as  to 
there  being  time  enough  to  act  between  the  time  he  left  and 
the  period  when  the  deck  became  untenable.  Besides  the 
bark,  there  were  several  vessels  on  the  course  that  day 
(Sunday)  which  might  have  picked  them  up,  and,  if  heavily 
insured  and  outward  bound,  would  not  have  turned  back,  as 
we  see  in  the  case  of  the  last  people  found,  who  were  a  day 
on  board  a  galliot,  and  obliged  to  bribe  the  captain  to  put 
back  to  England. 

" '  Eliot  Warburton  was  last  seen  standing  beside  the  man 
at  the  helm,  with  his  arms  folded.' " 

On  hearing  of  this  dreadful  disaster,  Mr.  Starkey  wrote  on 
the  28th  of  January  to  Mr.  Colburn  : 


348  Eliot  Warburton. 

"  Good  God,  sir !  can  it  be  possible  ?  Is  our  beloved  friend, 
Eliot  Warburton,  of  whom  I  wrote  to  you  but  yesterday,  in- 
deed among  the  number  of  the  lost  in  the  Amazon  ? 

"  I  am  scarcely  able  to  write,  or  even  to  think,  since  hear- 
ing even  the  suspicion  of  such  a  calamity. 

"  His  repeated  and  affectionate  offers  of  kindness  on  my 
behalf,  who  am  but  a  comparatively  new  acquaintance,  I 
could  not  attempt  to  enumerate.  He  addressed  me  from  a 
distance — asked  me  to  go  to  him,  and  acted  to  me  as  a 
brother — having  only  read  some  minor  publications  of  mine. 
I  have  letters  of  his,  which  I  treasured  as  memorials  of  our 
intercourse  and  of  his  rich  generosity  even  before  I  knew 
that  I  was  to  consider  them  as  all  I  should  have  to  treas- 
ure up. 

"Oh,  that  I  were  a  Milton  as  truly  as  he  was  a  Lycidas  I 
He  should  not  want  an  elegy — 

*  Sunk  as  he  is  beneath  the  watery  floor.'  " 

Miss  Mitford  writes :  "  Poor  Warburton !  I  hear  much  of 
him  from  my  friend,  a  neighbor  of  the  Russells,  whose  eldest 
son  was  the  R.  of  the  *  Crescent  and  the  Cross.'  He  is  since 
dead.  They  speak  of  Mr.  Warburton  in  the  very  highest 
terms." 


Mifs  Jephson.  $4g 


.    CHAPTER  XXIIL 

Miss  Jephson. — Letters  from  Miss  Jephson,  and  from  Miss  Mit- 
FORD  TO  Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Starkey. 

The  earliest  letter  that  I  have  seen  from  Miss  Mitford  to 
Miss  Jephson  is  dated  1824,  but  the  tone  of  it  shows  that 
their  friendship  was  not  then  new.  Miss  Mitford  says  that 
she  was  one  of  the  most  cultivated  women  that  she  had  ever 
known,  with  a  sweetness  and  simplicity  of  character  and 
charm  of  mind  and  manner  which  made  one  forget  how 
clever  she  was.  She  was  twenty-seven  in  1829,  and  Miss 
Mitford,  while  disclaiming  all  desire  for  match-making,  told 
her  old  and  valued  friend,  Mr.  Harness,  that  she  would  make 
him  a  good  wife.  Miss  Jephson  was  a  grandniece  of  Jeph- 
son the  dramatist,  and  suggested  to  Miss  Mitford  that  she 
should  edit  and  republish  his  plays,  together  with  hisy^/^;c 
d''esprit  and  letters.  When  Miss  Jephson  was  staying  near 
her  with  Lady  Sunderland  and  Miss  Malone — the  sister  of 
Edmund  Malone,  the  Shakespearian — she  found  a  number 
of  Mr.  Jephson's  letters  among  Malone's  papers,  and  among 
them  a  few  containing  an  amusing  quarrel  between  Jephson 
and  Horace  Walpole. 

The  first  letter  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson  in  Mr. 
Starkey's  collection  is  undated,  but  seems  to  have  been 
written  in  1831.  After  referring  to  her  plays,  "Inez  de 
Castro  "  and  "  Charles  I.,"  she  proceeds  to  pay  a  tribute  of 
respect  to  the  memory  of  Mr.  Thomas  Hope : 

"  You  will  see  that  literature  and  everybody,  above  all  his 
friends,  have  had  a  great  loss  in  Thomas  Hope.  He  had 
been  very  ill,  and  was  getting  better,  but  went  out,  in  an 
open  carriage,  in  one  of  those  fogs,  caught  cold,  and  applied 
the  remedies  which  an  inflammation  on  the  chest  rendered 
necessary.     Of  all  the  persons  I  ever  knew,  I  think  he  was 


350  Thomas  Hope. 

the  most  delightful.  There  was  a  quick,  glancing,  delicate 
wit  in  his  conversation  such  as  I  never  heard  before — it 
came  sparkling  in,  checkering  his  grave  sense  like  the  sun- 
beams in  a  forest.  He  had  also  (what  all  people  of  any 
value  have)  great  truth  and  exactness  of  observation,  and 
said  the  wisest  things  in  the  simplest  manner.  Above  all, 
there  was  about  him  a  little  tinge  of  shyness,  a  modesty,  a 
real  and  genuine  diffidence,  most  singular  and  most  charm- 
ing in  a  man  of  his  station,  his  fortune,  and  his  fame.  Every- 
body knows  the  noble  things  he  used  to  do — but  he  was  as 
careful  not  to  give  pain  as  he  was  earnest  to  confer  happi- 
ness, and  perhaps  this  humbler  and  easier  virtue  is  the  rarer 
of  the  two.  People  called  him  ugly,  and  a  detestable  French 
artist  painted  him  and  his  wife,  as  I  dare  say  you  have  heard, 
as  '  La  Belle  et  la  Bete.'  To  me  he  seemed  almost  hand- 
some. He  was  very  much  underhung,  which  gave  a  lion-like 
look  to  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  but  he  had  a  good  Shake- 
spearian pile  of  forehead,  an  expression  of  benevolence  and 
intellect,  and  the  air  and  bearing  of  a  man  of  the  highest 
distinction.  He  was  not,  I  find,  so  rich  as  has  been  thought, 
in  spite  of  his  magnificent  house  in  Duchess  Street,  the  very 
temple  of  art,  where  Mrs.  Hope's  parties  united  all  that  was 
most  distinguished  in  rank,  talent,  and  literature  ;  and  of  his 
still  more  beautiful  villa  at  Deepdene,  where  princes  of  all 
nations  used  to  take  up  their  abode  for  weeks  together.  All 
was  accomplished  by  the  most  admirable  system  of  order,  a 
large  and  liberal  economy.  He  knew  to  a  fraction  the  ex- 
pense of  every  day ;  nothing  ever  approached  the  exactness 
of  his  establishment — a  strange  union  with  such  magnificence 
and  such  taste :  perhaps  the  Dutch  blood  might  have  some 
influence.  He  has  two  brothers,  without  children,  one  of 
whom  has  had  sixty  thousand  a  year  for  the  last  twenty 
years,  and  not  spent  above  a  few  hundreds,  so  that  the  chil- 
dren (three  sons)  will  probably  be  immensely  rich.  The 
favorite  and  liveliest  child,  his  feelings  on  the  loss  of  whom 
prompted  the  last  exquisite  half-volume  of 'Anastasius,' is 
buried  in  the  graveyard  at  Deepdene,  in  a  spot  consecrated 
purposely  for  his  mausoleum.  I  do  not  know  where  he  him- 
self has  been  interred.     I  may  probably  have  told  you  of 


Thomas  Davis.  351 

him  a  good  deal  before,  dearest,  but  it  is,  I  believe,  the  sort 
of  authentic  account  of  celebrated  people  which  you  like  to 
receive.  Miss  Edgeworth  knew  him  well,  but  they  did  not 
take  to  each  other.  He  was  very  kind  to  me,  chiefly  because 
I  was  an  old  favorite  friend  of  his  favorite  friend. 

"I  am  reading  the  second  volume  of  Moore's  'Life  of 
Byron,'  and  I  must  say  that  I  do  think  a  great  deal  of  it 
ought  to  have  been  omitted." 

Miss  Mitford's  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Starkey  commenced 
in  the  winter  of  1852.  From  the  following  reply  it  appears 
that  he  first  wrote  to  her  to  express  his  appreciation  of  her 
"Recollections  of  a  Literary  Life,"  then  recently  published. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

Feb.  9,  1852. 
My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — I  cannot  address  as  a  stranger 
one  whom  in  right  of  dear  Emily  Jephson,  and  I  will  venture 
to  say  in  his  own,  I  have  learnt  to  regard  as  a  friend.  You 
can  hardly  fancy  how  much  pleasure  your  charming  letter 
has  given  me,  not  merely  from  its  own  kindness  to  my  book, 
but  because  it  comes  to  convince  me,  with  other  indications 
of  the  same  nature,  that  even  to  such  as  you  that  book  has 
been  suggestive,  has  drawn  attention  to  things  that  have  in- 
terested me,  and  to  writers  neglected  if  not  forgotten.  Your 
account  of  Thomas  Davis  was  peculiarly  interesting  to  me. 
Nobody  can  imagine  how  little  he  is  known  in  England. 
Except  two  or  three  young  barristers,  who  became  acquaint- 
ed with  him  through  his  edition  of  Curran,  I  never  met  with 
anybody  who  had  even  heard  the  name.  I  first  met  with  it 
in  Duffy's  Irish  Library,  and  have  since  had  frequent  mes- 
sages from  a  young  lady  to  whom  he  was  engaged,  sent  to 
me  through  a  correspondent  of  hers  and  mine.  I  know  no 
one  whose  writings,  full  as  they  are  of  youthful  fervor,  show 
more  maturity  than  those  of  Thomas  Davis.  They  are  quite 
free  from  the  imputed  national  faults.  I  agree  with  you  that 
he  was  spared  much  evil,  though  for  my  own  part,  looking  at 
the  matter  merely  as  an  Englishwoman,  and  therefore  igno- 
rantly,  I  confess  I  think  that  government  might  have  entered 


352  Praed. 

into  some  agreement  after  sentences  by  which  such  men  as 
John  Mitchell  and  Smith  O'Brien  and  poor  young  Meagher 
might  have  been  allowed  to  pass  their  days  as  exiles  in 
America,  instead  of  languishing  as  convicts  in  a  penal 
colony. 

With  regard  to  Mr.  Praed  you  are  probably  right:  the 
very  finish  and  beauty  of  those  trifles  was  against  a  higher 
success.  His  brother  furnished  me  with  a  great  number  of 
unpublished  MSS.,  chiefly  political  satires,  admirable  for 
point  and  pleasantry,  and  more  than  impartial,  since  I  think 
the  attacks  made  upon  his  party  were  the  most  numerous. 
I  might  have  printed  them  all  if  I  liked,  since  they  were  put 
into  my  hands  to  work  my  will  with;  but,  although  many 
perhaps  are  passed  away,  one  is  never  sure  in  such  cases  of 
not  giving  pain  in  some  quarter,  and  therefore  I  returned 
the  poems  without  even  taking  copies.  It  is  very  likely  that 
all  he  left  will  be  collected  and  published  now,  for  I  see  a 
cheap  edition  of  "  Holcroft's  Memoirs "  advertised,  and  I 
hear  of  a  forthcoming  collection  of  Frere,  whose  works,  long 
out  of  print,  are  scarcely  to  be  obtained  by  the  second-hand 
booksellers. 

The  specimen  you  have  sent  me  of  "  Prince  "  is  exquisite. 
I  have  commissioned  a  friend  in  London  to  look  for  his 
poems.  Did  you  ever  meet  with  some  by  a  Dorsetshire 
school-master?  I  have  heard  two  or  three  persons  speak  of 
them,  but  I  believe  they  are  in  that  west  cowxiixy  patois  which 
wants  the  charm  of  association  that  binds  me  to  the  Doric 
of  Burns  and  Motherwell.  One  of  my  early  favorites  was 
Allan  Ramsay's  "  Gentle  Shepherd  3"  in  that  I  never  found 
the  difficulties  that  beset  the  early  readers  of  the  Waverley 
novels,  or  even  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  poetry.  By  the  way,  I 
have  looked  through  scores  of  volumes  without  being  able  to 
find  what  Scott  calls  the  best  comic  ballad  in  any  language 
— James  V.'s  "We'll  gae  nae  mair  a-roving."  The  "Gaber- 
lunzie  Man,"  by  the  same  royal  author,  is  in  "Percy,"  but 
nowhere  can  I  find  its  companion.  After  looking  in  vain 
through  all  the  old  collections,  I  sent  for  Chambers's  collec- 
tion of  popular  Scottish  poems,  chiefly  comic,  but,  although 
there  are  some  curious  illustrations  of  Edinburgh  manners 


William  CJtambers.  353 

towards  the  end  of  the  last  century,  there  is  a  lack  of  what  I 
expected.  After  all,  I  should  have  done  better  to  write  to 
William  Chambers  himself,  whom  I  know  well  and  esteem 
much.*  He  is  one  of  the  best  illustrators  of  self-educated 
men.  His  wife  told  me  that  for  three  months,  when  a  lad 
of  eighteen  or  nineteen,  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  a  little 
portable  printing-press  exposed  in  a  broker's  window  in 
Edinburgh  for  the  price  of  eight  shillings  and  ninepence  ; 
every  night  he  walked  half  a  mile  round  to  see  if  the  bargain 
had  been  caught  up  by  another.  Two  or  three  times  he  had 
nearly  collected  the  sum,  but  some  imperative  claim  of  want, 
or  duty,  or  kindness  interfered.  At  last  he  scraped  the 
money  together  and  became  possessed  of  the  treasure.  My 
heart  warmed  to  both  wife  and  husband  as  they  told  me  this 
story — lady  and  gentleman  as  both  are  in  heart,  manner,  and 
acquirements. 

Thank  you  for  telling  me  that  story  of  Byron.  Strange 
that  there  should  be  another  plagiarism  after  the  wholesale 
theft  of  Werner,  which  could  not  be  unconscious.  I  am  very 
indulgent  towards  such  borrowings  in  general,  knowing  how 
extraordinary  is  the  manner  in  which  memory  and  invention 
are  sometimes  mixed  up,  especially  where  the  first  faculty  is 
weak.  With  me  it  is  singularly  so,  and  for  years  I  was  tor- 
mented by  constant  fear  that  every  line  of  tragedy  less  bad 
than  the  next  was  stolen  from  my  betters.  It  was  a  miser- 
able feeling.  At  last  I  outwrote  it,  but  I  would  not  answer 
for  its  not  reviving  now,  if  I  had  not,  luckily,  outlived  the 
power  of  writing  verse  at  all. 

Forgive  this  long,'  straggling  letter,  dear  Mr.  Starkey.  It 
will  at  least  prove  my  reliance  upon  your  indulgence.  Do 
you  never  come  to  London  ?  And,  if  you  do,  cannot  you  con- 
trive to  give  me  a  day?  Many  people  take  a  return-ticket, 
and  put  up  with  my  homely  fare,  and  spend  the  afternoon 
in  my  poor  cottage.  One  day's  notice,  to  make  sure  of  not 
missing  you,  would  be  plenty. 

Ever  very  faithfully  yours, 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 

*  In  the  Edinburgh  yournal  for  January  28,  1882,  he  gives  an  inter- 
esting account  of  some  of  his  visits  to  Miss  Mitford. 


354  Leigh  Hunt. 

A  slip  of  paper  inside  this  letter  contains  the  following: 

What  you  say  of  Leigh  Hunt  reminds  me  of  a  curious  cir- 
cumstance not  a  little  illustrative  of  the  man.  I  know  none 
of  the  family,  but  a  friend  of  mine  brought  a  pretty  grand- 
daughter of  his,  who  had  almost  wholly  lived  with  him,  a  girl 
of  sixteen,  to  pass  the  day.  We  took  a  country  walk,  and  in 
part  of  a  farm-house  Miss  Hunt  was  most  astonished  and 
puzzled  by  an  object  the  most  natural  and  the  most  familiar. 
She  had  never  seen  a  plough!  And  this  was  the  constant 
inmate,  the  favorite  grandchild  of  the  lover  of  nature!  This 
is  what  prevents  his  being  a  poet,  dear  Mr.  Starkey  :  not  his 
being  ignorant  of  the  commonest  rural  objects,  but  his  affect- 
ing to  be  familiar  with  them — in  a  word,  his  want  of  truth. 
From  what  I  hear,  the  chief  sins  of  his  life  have  been  eter- 
nal mendicancy.  His  prose  gives  me  no  pleasure,  but  the 
processional  power  of  the  story  of  "  Rimini "  is  a  thing  to 
wonder  at.  He  might  have  been  near  to  Chaucer,  if  he  had 
only  been  true.  In  your  and  Milton's,  for  better  words,  "  If 
his  life  had  been  a  poem."  Casting  aside,  of  course,  a  far 
too  large  part  of  his  works,  the  greatest  living  poet  seems  to 
me  to  be  B^ranger.  I  know  no  one  who  unites  such  impulse, 
such  finish,  and  such  truth. 

Miss  Jephson*  to  DiGBY  Starkey,  Esq. 

Feb.  12,  1852. 

My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — Yesterday  came  one  of  dear 
Miss  Mitford's  closely  written,  many-leaved  letters,  which  she 
begins  by  saying,  "  how  very,  very  glad  she  shall  always  be 
to  hear  from  Mr.  Starkey." 

Gift-books  and  letters  come  every  day,  pouring  in  two, 
three,  four  at  a  time,  she  says,  in  consequence  of  her  book. 
Of  the  books,  the  most  striking  is  a  little  volume  of  poems, 
bearing  the  name  (not,  she  believes,  the  true  name)  of  Mary 
Maynard — a  friend  of  John  Ruskin.  Of  this  book  she  speaks 
very  highly,  and  fancies  that  the  assumed  name  conceals 
high  rank.    Besides  books  and  letters,  roses  arrive,  two  seed- 

*  Some  of  Miss  Mitford's  letters  to  Miss  Jephson  are  in  the  "Life  of 
Mary  Russell  Mitford."  ' 


A  Prophetic  Dream.  355 

lings  called  "  Miss  Mitford,"  and  two  the  "  Swallowfield." 
She  has,  from  Hertfordshire  nurseries,  no  less  than  twelve 
climbing  roses  for  the  front  of  her  house.  She  says  that  all 
the  choicest  and  best  English  and  French  roses  are  raised  in 
Hertfordshire.  Last  evening,  during  a  drive  to  Cloyne  with 
Mrs.  Halloran,  we  talked  of  Miss  Mitford's  book — and  her 
prize  in  the  lottery  reminded  Mrs.  H.  of  a  marvellous  and,  I 
am  sure,  a  true  history,  which  I  must  tell  you.  About  thirty 
years  ago  a  Mr.  Armstrong,  the  son  of  a  Presbyterian  minister, 
dreamed  three  times  that  he  had  gained  a  prize  of  ;^2o,ooo 
in  the  lottery,  and  each  time  the  number  of  the  ticket  was 
revealed  to  him.  After  the  third  dream  he  felt  so  certain 
that  he  should  obtain  the  prize  that  he  resolved  (though 
very  poor  at  the  time)  to  purchase  a  ticket  j  but,  knowing  that 
his  parents  would  object  to  his  spending  so  much  money 
on  what  would  probably  prove  to  be  a  delusion,  he  pawned  some 
things  of  his  own,  and,  wishing  not  to  be  known  when  buying 
the  ticket,  he  called  himself  Mr.  Johnson,  his  father's  Chris- 
tian name  being  John.  One  doubt  troubled  him.  He  was 
sure  that  he  had  dreamed  of  the  same  number  two  of  the 
nights,  but  did  not  distinctly  remember  what  number  he  had 
thought  of  on  the  second  night.  On  that  night  he  had  slept 
at  an  inn,  and,  fearing  after  his  dream  that  he  should  forget 
the  number  of  the  ticket,  he  had  risen  from  his  bed,  and  with 
a  pencil  had  written  on  the  wall  the  lucky  number.  To  that 
inn  he  resolved  to  go,  half  fearing,  however,  that  the  figures 
would  be  erased.  But  there  he  found  them,  corresponding 
exactly  with  those  of  which  he  had  dreamed  before.  Now  he 
felt  secure ;  hope  changed  almost  to  certainty,  and  he  wrote 
before  the  lottery  was  drawn  to  his  father  and  to  his  sisters 
letters  informing  them  of  his  good  fortune,  which  were  to  be 
put  into  the  post-office  when  the  prize  became  his  own.  And 
the  prize  did  become  his — a  ;^2o,ooo  prize — and  Mrs.  Hal- 
loran, then  at  Cork,  and  living  within  a  few  doors  of  one  of 
his  sisters,  saw  the  letter  which  announced  the  good  news 
on  the  day  on  which  it  arrived.  This  Mr.  Armstrong  is  now 
living  in  Dublin,  in  Eccles  Street,  and  Mrs.  Halloran  (when 
I  said  Miss  Mitford  should  be  told  the  story)  said  that  she 
would  ask  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Chatterton,  to  call  on  him  for 


3  5  6  Frefick  Affairs. 

further  particulars;  but  I  think  all  that  can  be  interesting  is 
known.  Mr.  Armstrong  settled  ^loo  a  year  on  his  parents, 
and  gave  each  of  his  sisters  ;^5oo. 

Miss  Mitford  received  a  letter  the  other  day  from  Paris, 
telling  her  (on  the  authority  of  one  of  Louis  Napoleon's  qffi- 
ciers  (T ordonnafice)  that  it  was  foretold  to  him  by  a  black 
woman  of  Ham  that  he  should  rule  over  France,  should  make 
her  great  and  happy,  and  then  should  be  shot  in  a  ball-room. 
He  is  said  to  believe  this  prediction  implicitly.* 

I  transcribe  from  Miss  Mitford's  letter.  I  had  asked 
her  who  the  Princess  Mathilde  is,  of  whom  the  newspaper 
says  that  she  had  on  her  knees  entreated  L.  N.  not  to  confis- 
cate the  Orleans  property.  You  know  probably  that  she  is 
Jerome  Bonaparte's  daughter,  married  to  Count  DemidofF. 
She  is  said  to  be  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  France,  and 
exceedingly  lively  and  brilliant,  a  great  favorite  of  the  prince 
president,  who  calls  her  always  la  belle  cousifie.  The  most 
beautiful  things  in  the  Great  Exhibition  (excepting  the  Tu- 
nisian and  Indian  vases  and  fabrics),  the  malachites,  come 
from  the  estates  of  Count  Demidoff.  Another  extract  from 
this  letter  I  must  give  you. 

"  Madame  de  Girardin  was  herself  a  French  poetess,  of 
name  Delphine  Gay.  About  eight  or  ten  years  ago  she 
wrote  a  comedy  e?i  cinq  actes  et  en  vers,  called  '  L'Ecole  des 
Journalistes,'  very  clever  and  tremendously  severe.  She 
summoned  all  the  most  celebrated  authors  of  Paris,  espe- 
cially the  journalists,  to  read  it  to  them.  Jules  Janin  t  there- 
upon wrote  a.  feuilleion,  g\w\v\g  an  account  of  the  sitting,  and 
addressing  her  as  'mon  beau  confrere.'  The  whole  was 
published,  com&dy,  feiiilleton,  and  two  or  three  letters,  pro  and 
con,  and  a  most  amusing  little  volume  is  made." 

"  Mon  beau  confrere  "  to  Madame  de  G.  reminds  me  of 
a  story  of  Talleyrand  which  Miss  Beddoes  told  me.  In  Ma- 
dame de  Stael's  novel  of  "Delphine,"  one  of  the  charac- 
ters— I  forget  her  name,  the  friend  of  "Delphine  " — was  sup- 

*  The  first  part  of  this  required  no  great  prophetic  power,  if  accounts 
are  true  of  the  manner  in  which  he  was  treated  by  the  soldiers  when  in 
prison. 

t  The  editor  of  the  yotirnal  des  Debats. 


Mrs.Hoare.  357 

posed,  though  a  woman,  to  be  meant  for  Talleyrand.  On 
somebody's  asking  him  if  he  had  read  the  novel,  he  said, 
"Non — on  dit  que  nous  y  sommes  tous  les  deux  deguises 
en  femmes,"  meaning  Madame  de  Stael  and  himself. 

Good-by,  dear  Mr.  Starkey.  I  am  sure  you  are  tired  of 
me,  so  I  will  at  last  take  my  leave. 

Your  affectionate  scribbling  sister, 

E.  E.  Jephson. 

In  the  following  letter  to  Miss  Jephson,  Miss  Mitford 
again  refers  to  her  correspondence  with  Mr.  Starkey : 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  very  dear  Emily,  that  I  ever  received 
more  pleasure  than  from  a  most  kind  and  charming  letter 
from  that  delightful  brother-in-law  of  yours,  Mr.  Starkey.  I 
had  sent  off  a  letter  to  you  the  very  morning  that  his  arrived, 
for  I  am  here  a  mile  from  our  village  post-office,  and  do  not, 
unless  upon  some  un-put-off-able  occasion,  send  oftener  than 
once  a  day.  I  lost  no  time,  of  course,  in  thanking  him  for 
the  kindness,  which  I  feel  I  owe  in  great  measure  to  your 
partiality,  dear  friend,  to  which  I  have  so  often  been  indebted 
before.  Thank  you  for  liking  my  book:  I  continue  to  re- 
ceive letter  after  letter  about  it. 

"I  have  another  letter  from  Mrs. Hoare.  I  like  her:  she 
speaks  with  the  truest  feeling  of  poor  Mrs.  James  Gray,  and 
has  sent  me  three  striking  poems  of  hers. 

"  Mrs.  Hoare  has  sent  me  a  little  book  of  her  own  writing, 
called  '  Shamrock  Leaves,'  a  painful  book,  since  it  deals  in 
details  of  the  years  of  famine,  and  tells  its  story  with  much 
apparent  truth.  One  thing  she  mentions — blue  and  white 
and  pink  harebells  growing  wild  in  an  orchard.  Now  I 
never  saw  a  wild  harebell  of  any  color  but  blue — did  you  "i 
I  have  seen  it  white  when  cultivated,  but  pink  never.  I 
wonder  whether  she  confounds  it  with  the  wild  hyacinth? 
Inaccurate  people  sometimes  call  both  harebells,  and  the  wild 
hyacinth  is  sometimes  found  white  (although  very  rarely,  and 
a  most  beautiful  variety  it  is),  and  sometimes  of  an  interme- 
diate lavender  color  that  might  be  called  pink;  but  there 
is  no  answering  for  that  strange,  puzzling  thing,  the  coloring 


358  George  Sand. 

matter  of  flowers.     The  soil  of  Ireland  may  produce  pink 
harebells." 

There  is  an  additional  leaf  enclosed  in  this  letter  contain- 
ing the  following: 

"  Days  enough  have  passed  since  I  wrote  the  enclosed  for 
me  to  have  received  another  most  charming  letter  from  Mr. 
Starkey.  To-day  I  received,  too,  another  letter  from  Mrs. 
Browning;  she  has  seen  George  Sand,  and  is  charmed  with 
her.  She  came  to  Paris  chiefly  to  solicit  the  President  for 
a  friend  of  hers.  He  received  her  most  kindly,  shook  hands 
with  her,  and  granted  her  request.  (Those  precious  news- 
papers of  ours  said,  if  you  remember,  that  he  had  exiled 
her.)  Mrs.  Browning  is  quite  as  enthusiastic  for  the  Prince 
President  as  ever.  To-day,  too,  came  a  packet  of  unbound 
sheets — a  poem  without  a  title-page,  whose  title  I  take  to  be 
'Verdicts.'  It  is  on  recent  poets,  and  shows  great  bold- 
ness and  talent.  The  page  and  a  half  given  to  me  is  most 
carefully  and  beautifully  written,  and  with  so  much  enco- 
mium that  one  cannot  help  thinking  it  must  be  by  a  friend. 
Mrs.  Browning  says  George  Sand  is  not  'taller  than  I 
am ' — short,  of  a  colorless,  olive  complexion,  with  dark,  glow- 
ing eyes,  black  hair,  and  a  noble  countenance.  She  was  very 
simply  dressed  (as  a  woman),  in  a  room  with  a  bed  in  it ; 
her  manner  very  kind,  very  quiet ;  a  low,  soft  voice,  an  un- 
emphatic  utterance,  rather  calm  than  ardent.  Now  all  this 
I  knew  except  the  shortness,  which  I  can  hardly  believe 
even  now ;  she  must  have  looked  so  ill  in  doublet  and  hose. 
Mrs.  Browning  could  not  help  stooping  to  kiss  her  hand, 
upon  which  Madame  Sand  threw  her  arms  round  her  neck 
and  kissed  her  upon  the  lips." 

The  following  is  Miss  ^litford's  reply  to  a  second  letter 
from  Mr.  Starkey;  it  is  undated,  but  from  the  postmark 
seems  to  have  been  sent  on  February  25, 1852  : 

"  You  will  spoil  me,  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  by  over-kindness, 
which  from  such  a  person  as  you  is  very  dangerous.  I  can 
hardly  tell  you  how  much  I  was  made  ashamed  by  your 


"  Verdicts"  359 

letter;  the  estimate  of  those  poor  poets  is  a  poem  in  itself 
— all  the  more  a  poem  because  of  its  truth.  It  is  a  compli- 
ment to  my  own  critical  vanity  to  say  how  nearly  we  agree 
in  our  estimate,  differing  only  so  far  as  any  two  outspoken 
and  independent  minds  unbiassed  by  clique  or  coterie  would 
be  sure  to  differ,  as  much  as  two  leaves  upon  the  same  oak- 
tree.  I  have  been  called  to  the  examination  of  our  recent 
great  poets,  or  rather  to  my  own  impression  of  them,  by  the 
receipt  of  the  sheets  of  a  poem — not  yet  published — called 
'Verdicts.'  It  arrived  without  preface, title-page,  or  written 
note,  or  anything  to  give  token  of  the  author,  and  it  is  only 
by  an  advertisement  in  a  paper  sent  to  me  to-day  for  another 
purpose  that  I  find  it  to  be  published  by  Effingham  Wilson. 
It  is  very  powerful,  knocking  down  false  reputations,  Keble, 
PoUok,  Kirke  White,  Robert  Montgomery  (by  the  way,  Mrs. 
Hoare  tells  me  the  aforesaid  Robert  proposed  to  and  was  re- 
fused by  poor  Mrs.  James  Gray),  separating  the  man  Southey 
from  the  author,  and  the  poet  Wordsworth  from  the  man. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  the  truth  told  in  print  of 
Wordsworth,  whom  I  never  saw  in  his  own  mountains,  but 
whom  I  sat  next  at  dinner  one  year  in  London  four  days  run- 
ning, to  the  great  endangerment  of  my  admiration  ;  for  a  man 
so  wrapped  up  in  the  double  worship  of  his  own  poetry  and  of 
mere  rank  and  riches  in  others  I  never  did  see.  It  is  not 
of  that  that  the  poet  of  '  Verdicts '  talks,  but  of  his  general 
coldness  to  others  ;  we  neither  of  us  bring  the  slightest  ac- 
cusation against  him  in  point  of  conduct,  but  the  thing  was 
disenchanting,  nevertheless.  There  are  a  good  many  points 
in  which  he  and  I  should  disagree,  and  his  overestimate  of 
my  poor  books  is  something  to  wonder  at  in  so  acute  a  per- 
son. But  still  it  is  a  very  powerful  and  shining  poem,  and 
would  have  been  sure  to  make  a  sensation,  if  the  author  had 
had  a  little  more  sense  of  sound.  It  is  written  in  the  Bath 
Guide  jingle,  which,  if  it  do  not  run  trippingly  over  the 
tongue,  is  worse  than  nothing.  None  but  a  contemporary 
of  Moore  can  tell  how  much  his  fine  feeling  of  rhythm,  the 
flow  and  sweetness  of  his  verse,  aided  his  reputation.  Peo- 
ple were  helped  to  the  words  by  the  sound,  and  so  remem- 
bered them:  it  was  like  an  air  in  music. 


360  Play-writmg. 

"  And  so,  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  you  have  Written  a  tragedy  \ 
and  upon  the  most  delightful  of  all  subjects,  the  Spaniards 
and  the  Moors.  I  remember  seeing  a  great  conjunction  of 
fine  actors,  Young,  Charles  Kemble,  Macready,  and  Miss 
O'Neil,  in  a  drama  called  the  '  Apostate,'  by  Mr.  Shiel. 
Of  course  such  a  cast  would  have  insured  success  under  any 
circumstances ;  but  I  always  thought  the  happy  selection  of 
place,  and  time,  and  races  did  more  for  it  still.  I  would 
never  recommend  any  friend  to  write  for  the  stage,  because 
it  nearly  killed  me  with  its  unspeakable  worries  and  anxie- 
ties, and  I  am  certainly  ten  years  older  for  having  so  written  ; 
but  of  all  forms  of  poetry  it  is  the  one  I  prefer,  and  I  would 
always  advise  the  writing  with  a  view  to  the  production  of  the 
piece  upon  the  boards,  because  it  avoids  the  danger  of  in- 
terminable dialogues  of  coldness  and  of  languor,  I  remem- 
ber a  dear  friend  of  mine  (Mr.  Monck,  member  for  Reading,  a 
first-rate  scholar,  and  a  man  of  great  general  taste)  confess- 
ing to  me  that  he  read  himself  to  sleep  four  nights  in  one  week 
over  the  '  Fall  of  Jerusalem  '  of  our  mutual  friend,  Mr.  Mil- 
man.  Write  for  the  stage,  but  don't  bring  the  play  out — that 
is  my  advice.  If  you  wish  to  know  my  reasons,  you  may 
find  some  of  them  in  the  fact  that  one  of  my  tragedies  had 
seven  last  acts,  and  that  two  others  fought  each  other  during 
a  whole  season  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre ;  Mr.  Macready 
insisting  upon  producing  one,  Charles  Kemble  equally  bent 
upon  the  other — neither  of  them  even  pretending  to  any  su- 
periority of  either  play,  but  because  one,  a  man  of  fifty, 
would  play  the  young  man's  part,  and  the  other  insisted 
that  none  but  himself  should  have  anything  like  a  telling 
part  at  all.  Both  were  read  in  the  green-room,  both  adver- 
tised— and  just  think  of  the  poor  author  in  the  country  all 
the  time,  while  the  money  was  earnestly  wanted,  and  the 
non-production  fell  upon  her  like  a  sin  ! 

"  Some  day  you  must  let  me  see  your  tragedy.  I  am  very 
sure  that  it  is  the  finest  form  of  poetry  :  that  which  unites 
passion  and  action,  which  talks,  and  lives,  and  moves. 

"  Yes,  it  was  Beranger.  I  have  a  great  love  of  French 
literature,  and  a  great  habit  of  throwing  myself  into  it  for 
months  together ;  and  the  lyrics  of  Victor  Hugo  (not  his 


Motherwell.  361 

dramas  or  novels),  and  the  chansons  of  the  great  old  man 
(of  which  I  do  not  mean  the  chansons  grivoises,  for  which  he 
is  now  probably  infinitely  grieved)  always  seem  to  me  the 
verdant  spots  of  French  poetry.  I  forgot  to  tell  Emily  Jeph- 
son  that  Mr.  Browning  says  M.  de  Cormenin  (you. know  the 
brilliant  political  writer)  was  Louis  Napoleon's  adviser  in 
the  confiscation  of  the  Orleans  property. 

"  I  shall  have  tired  )'ou  to  death  with  this  long  scrawl,  dear 
Mr.  Starkey,  all  unworthy  as  I  am  to  be  the  faintest  shadow 
of  Miss  Edgeworth.  But  my  rheumatism  is  to  blame.  I 
have  been  afraid  of  the  wind  to-day,  and  my  correspondents 
have  suffered." 

The  following  is  from  Miss  Jephson  to  Mr.  Starkey : 

Miss  Jephson  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

March  11. 

My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — A  charming  letter  has  just  ar- 
rived from  dear  Miss  Mitford,  except  that  I  am  sorry  for  her 
rheumatism,  which  is  worse,  and  her  writing  is  quite  rheu- 
matic. I  will  transcribe  most  of  her  letter  for  you;  it  will 
divert  me  from  thinking  of  a  trouble  of  my  own. 

"  What  is  very  strange  about  Motherwell  is  that  I  have 
literally  given  of  him  all  that  will  live — the  lyrics  are  com- 
mon and  poor.  Most  wonderful  that  the  man  who  wrote 
that  inimitable  ballad,  or,  rather,  those  two  inimitable  bal- 
lads, for  I  think  '  My  held  is  like  to  rend '  nearly  as  fine  as 
*  Jeanie  Morrison,'  although  more  painful,  should  not  have 
produced  other  poems  of  merit.  To  be  sure,  he  was  touch- 
ing and  retouching  '  Jeanie  Morrison,'  line  by  line  and  word 
by  word,  all  his  life.  As  for  Dr.  Holmes,  who  lives,  they 
say,  on  every  man's  lips  in  Boston,  he  was  totally  unknown 
in  England  until  I  published  my  book.  By  mere  accident 
my  dear  friend  Mr.  Fields  sent  me  his  'Astraea.'  He  ap- 
pears to  me  the  most  charming  little  person  under  the  sun, 
what  Moore  was  thirty  years  ago,  with  more  pith  and  sub- 
stance, singing  his  own  songs  as  nobody  else  can  sing  them, 
reciting  poems,  delivering  speeches,  the  most  brilliant  and 
sparkling  man  of  society  that  ever  lived,  and  one  of  the 

16 


362  Hawthorne. 

most  skilful  and  admirable  physicians,  who  makes  every 
patient  his  friend.  John  Whittier  is  a  Quaker.  It  is  to  be 
noted  that  he  sent  me  an  illustrated  edition  of  his  works, 
bound  in  scarlet  morocco,  with  a  vast  quantity  of  gilding 
and  a  portrait;  but  he  himself  is  a  very  strict  Quaker,  call- 
ing every  man  by  his  Christian  name,  and  theeing  everybody 
male  or  female.  He  is  popular,  as  the  ardent  party-man 
will  generally  be — that  is,  with  the  abolitionists — a  sincere 
and  zealous  man,  who  would  lay  down  his  life  for  his  opinion. 
I  think  I  like  a  little  volume  of  his,  called  '  Songs  of  Labor,' 
even  better  than  the  ballads  I  have  quoted,  although  it  is 
less  characteristic.  '  Nathaniel  Hawthorne '  is  the  most 
beautiful  of  all.  Magnificently  beautiful,  and  gifted,  as  you 
see,  and  educated  at  the  same  college  and  with  the  same  ad- 
vantages as  Longfellow,  he  was,  three  or  four  years  ago,  with- 
out vice  or  extravagance  on  his  part,  literally  starving.  My 
friend,  Mr.  Fields,  heard  of  it  (he  is  a  partner  in  the  great 
publishing  house  in  America),  and  being  a  man  of  fine  taste 
as  well  as  fine  feeling,  and  having  seen  some  of  Hawthorne's 
magazine  articles,  he  went  to  him  and  said, '  I  have  such  a 
faith  in  you  that,  if  you  will  give  me  a  book,  I  will  print  two 
thousand  five  hundred  copies,  run  all  risks,  and  allow  you 
twenty-five  per  cent.'  The  poor  author  demurred ;  he  had 
begun  a  tale  which  was  to  form  one  of  a  volume  of  short 
stories,  and  showed  him  neither  more  nor  less  than  the 
'  Scarlet  Letter.'  My  friend,  Mr.  Fields,  himself  a  poet, 
said  at  once,  '  This  must  not  be  one  of  a  volume  of  short 
stories ;  it  must  be  a  fully  developed  tale,'  and  accordingly 
Mr.  Hawthorne  took  his  advice,  and  is  now  in  comfort  and 
affluence.  Still,  it  is  a  difficult  mind  to  deal  with.  I  asked 
Mr.  Fields  why  he  had  not  endeavored  to  expunge  the  rail- 
way journey  in  the  '  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,'  which  is  a 
blot  upon  the  book,  and  he  said, '  If  I  had  found  the  slight- 
est fault,  he  would  instantly  have  flung  the  whole  MS.  into 
the  fire.'  Mr.  Whittier  went  to  see  him  once,  and  the  maid 
denied  him.  The  Quaker,  seeing  him  through  the  window, 
made  his  way  in.  Hawthorne  hardly  spoke.  Whittier  is 
habitually  taciturn,  but  after  sitting  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in 
absolute  silence,  he  got  up  and  said,  '  This  won't  do,  Na- 


An  Historic  Mansion.  363 

thaniel ;  let  us  go  out  into  the  fields,'  and  then  they  got  on 
better.  Miss  Brewer,  who  was  two  years  in  America,  told 
Mrs.  Kingsley  that  Hawthorne  was  mad.  Now,  that  is  not 
the  case,  but  it  is  a  peculiar  idiosyncrasy,  and  there  is  no 
saying  how  it  may  end.  If  you  saw  all  his  writing,  you 
would  see  how  very  much  the  unreal  predominates  over  the 
real — the  bright,  sunny  daylight  of  life  and  of  nature.  Have 
you  seen  Longfellow's  '  Golden  Legend '  ?  I  delight  in  it. 
It  is  the  most  racy  of  all  his  poems,  a  complete  reproduction 
of  German  literature  and  German  life  in  the  Middle  Ages 
— quaint,  rich,  and  grand  as  a  Gothic  cathedral.  There  is 
one  passage  on  a  bell,  in  an  out-door  sermon,  peculiarly  fine. 
It  is  taken  from  an  old  German  poem,  with  an  improved  ca- 
tastrophe. You  know,  of  course,  that  the  '  Evangeline '  was 
taken  from  the  '  Hermann  and  Dorothea'  of  Goethe. 

"  If  I  write  another  book,  I  shall  make  an  article  on  Sum- 
mervill.  It  is  a  grand  old  house  of  more  than  ordinary  in- 
terest— I  mean,  Elizabeth  gave  it  to  Leicester  (odious  peo- 
ple both!),  and  Charles  II.  used  to  be  much  there  when  the 
court  was  at  Ivybridge.  Miss  Goldsmid  says  that  it  remains 
just  as  it  was  when  peopled  with  the  heroes  and  heroines  of 
the  'Memoires  de  Grammont.'  It  will  put  one's  English 
and  one's  dexterity  to  the  test  to  give  a  scene  or  two  which 
shall  lose  the  wickedness  and  retain  the  wit  of  Count  An- 
thony Hamilton,  but  I  shall  try.  Full  it  is  of  old  pictures 
and  old  books,  the  park  and  gardens  full  of  fine  old  trees 
and  sweet  old  flowers. 

"Yes — you  do  know  Woodcock  Lane;  but  the  beginning 
is  the  least  picturesque  part,  although  it  looks  cool  and  ver- 
dant even  there.  Here  I  can  reach  the  other  end  of  the 
lane  through  about  a  mile  of  exquisite  scenery — but  when 
I  shall  be  able  to  walk  a  mile  again  who  can  tell?  How- 
ever, my  own  lanes  are  charming.  Mr.  Starkey  is  a  man  in 
a  million." 

Miss  MiTFORD  to  Mr.  Starkey, 

March  16. 
Your  letters,  dearest  Mr.  Starkey,  always  give   me  the 
strongest  desire  to  possess   that  carpet  of  the  "Arabian 


364  Moore. 

Nights "  by  ^vhich  one  might  transport  one's  self  whither 
one  would.  If  I  had  it,  you  would  assuredly  see  a  little  old 
woman,  ugly  enough  for  a  personage  in  any  fairy-tale,  alight 
amongst  your  family  party  (Emily  says  that  it  is  there  you 
ought  to  be  kept),  and  taking  place  amidst  your  beautiful 
children  and  your  charming  wife  for  the  sake  of  a  good  lit- 
erary talk. 

What  I  like  least  in  rereading  "Verdicts"  is  the  exceed- 
ing one-sidedness.  It  is  strange  that  extreme  liberals  should 
be  so  little  tolerant — and  out  of  this  springs  a  great  many 
differences  of  opinion.  He  overrates  Dickens  and  Jerrold 
and  Bulwer  much — all,  to  my  fancy,  so  vulgar  in  their  differ- 
ent ways;  and  underrates  Scott.  Besides,  there  is  a  want 
of  compression,  very  bad  in  satire,  which  should  be  rapid 
and  pungent ;  nevertheless,  there  is  talent. 

Poor  Mr.  Moore!  I  knew  him  well,  and,  rating  him  as  a 
poet  much  lower  than  you  do,  delighted  in  him  as  a  com- 
panion and  wit — the  most  perfectly  graceful,  genial,  and 
kindly  of  all  wits.  As  a  family  man,  he  was,  I  believe,  more 
than  usually  amiable.  My  acquaintance  with  him  was  in 
town,  but  a  dear  friend  of  mine  was  his  near  neighbor  and 
Mrs.  Moore's  intimate  friend  at  Sloperton,  and  she  says  that 
she  never  knew  a  more  exemplary  husband  and  father. 
After  the  loss  of  all  his  children,  they  saw  him  one  day 
looking  over  a  large  packet  of  letters  from  eminent  persons. 
He  said,  "  I  think  I  shall  burn  these  now,  for  there  is  no- 
body left  to  value  them  for  my  sake,  and  I  do  not  wish 
them  to  be  preserved  as  autographs."  He  died,  as  of  course 
you  know,  of  the  same  disease  that  carried  off  Scott  and 
Southey,  and  of  which  Dr.  Buckland  is  now  dying — softening 
of  the  brain.  A  remarkable  instance  of  the  strange  and 
variable  manner  in  which  that  complaint  works  was  related 
to  me  the  very  day  after  it  occurred  by  my  friend  the  Rev. 
Alexander  Dyce.  He  was  spending  a  day  with  me  two  or 
three  years  ago,  with  our  mutual  friend  William  Harness, 
and  he  said,  "  I  breakfasted  yesterday  with  Rogers,  and  he 
showed  me  a  letter  just  received  from  Moore — ihe  strangest 
letter,  sentences  begun  and  broken  off,  and  begun  again,  just 
like  the  sort  of  copy  that  a  very  small  schoolboy  makes 


Moore.  365 

when  writing  his  first  letter  home.  We  were  quite  startled, 
but,  going  to  Longmans  on  business  afterwards,  they  showed 
me  a  letter  that  they  had  just  received  from  Moore  about 
a  bargain  for  his  diaries — a  short,  clear  letter  of  business 
which  would  have  done  honor  to  any  banker  in  London. 
Both  letters  bore  the  same  date."  Now  this  was  before  the 
disease  had  declared  itself,  and,  I  suppose,  could  only  be 
explained  by  his  retaining  the  power  of  exerting  his  mind 
for  the  short  letter  on  business,  whilst  the  command  deserted 
him  while  writing  to  a  familiar  friend  like  Mr.  Rogers.  How 
that  disease  is  increasing!  Mr.  Kingsley  and  dear  John 
Lucas,  the  great  portrait-painter,  have  both  confessed  to  me 
that  they  apprehend  themselves  to  be  affected  by  it — young 
men  both,  but  both  addicted  to  smoking.  By  the  way,  I 
have  to-day  a  very  charming  letter  from  a  young  American 
in  Rome,  and,  amongst  other  stories  of  the  laureate  in  Italy, 
he  says  that  he  left  Florence  because  he  could  get  no  good 
tobacco.  As  to  the  late  laureate,  I  admire  as  much  as  can 
be  his  earlier  and  greater  poems.  Half  a  volume  will  live 
as  long  as  the  language.  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  never  so 
heartily  liked  Wordsworth  since  it  became  a  fashion  to  praise 
him,  and  little  misses  and  heavy  young  gentlemen  who  have 
no  real  enjoyment  in  literature  of  any  kind  have  thought  it 
necessary  to  fling  themselves  into  ecstasies  at  his  power. 


366  Letters  from  Mifs  Mitford. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Letters  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Starkey. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Digby  Starkey,  Esq. 

Saturday  night,  April  12,  1852, 

My  dear  Mr,  Starkey, — I  go  at  once  to  business.  You 
would  hardly  imagine  me  to  be  a  veteran  writer,  so  little  I 
know  of  authors,  editors,  or  publishers.  The  only  living 
English  publisher  whom  I  have  ever  seen  is,  I  believe,  Mr. 
Bentley,  and  I  have  only  seen  him  twice,  and  certainly 
should  not  know  him  again.  Messrs.  Blackwood  sent  me 
their  magazine  containing  a  review  of  myself,  with  a  very 
kind  note,  a  week  or  two  back.  I  do,  however,  know  their 
London  manager.  I  enclose  you  a  note  for  him,  which  you 
may  deliver  or  not,  as  you  like.  His  family  are  people  of 
old  standing  in  the  vale  of  Berkshire,  farming  their  own 
property — most  respectable  in  every  way.  Still,  he  is  only 
the  managing  man  at  Messrs.  Blackwood's,  and  it  is  not  like 
giving  you  a  note  to  one  of  themselves.  I  suppose  that 
Professor  Aytoun  is  the  editor;  but  even  this  I  do  not  ab- 
solutely know. 

You  and  Mr.  Waller  will  spoil  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Starkey. 
I  never  could  understand  what  people  find  to  like  in  my 
letters,  unless  it  be  that  they  spring  direct  from  the  soil,  that 
they  have  a  root  to  them — the  sort  of  quality  that  makes 
one  sometimes  prefer  a  wild  plant  alive  and  growing  in  its 
woodland  nook  to  a  fine  cut  flower  in  a  rich  vase.  It  is 
strange  how  few  people  let  one  have  thought  and  feeling 
just  as  they  spring,  either  in  letters  or  in  conversation.  They 
talk  reviews,  they  talk  newspapers,  anything  except  the  nat- 
ural promptings  of  their  own  minds.  But  I  must  not  forget 
that  some  of  my  correspondents — you,  for  instance — are  af- 
fluent to  overflowing;  you  give  the  impulse,  and  then  praise 


Lucas.  367 

that  which  you  have  prompted.  Of  one  thing  be  quite  as- 
sured, that  I  consider  myself  very  much  the  greater  gainer 
in  our  epistolary  intercourse.  Is  it  never  to  be  more  than 
epistolary?  Is  the  one  day  in  London  "quite  literal"?  If 
not — if  you  can  come  here  for  a  few  hours,  putting  up  with 
a  cutlet  at  any  time  that  may  best  suit  you,  you  must  let 
me  have  one  line  sent  off  the  day  before.  You  will  find  me 
crippled  by  rheumatism,  and  perhaps  enchained  by  another 
terrible  infliction  —  the  dreadful  operation  of  sitting  for  a 
portrait.  Mr.  Bentley  sent  to  desire  one  of  the  many  al- 
ready taken,  each  being  more  unlike  than  the  other.  I 
wrote  to  tell  our  dilemma  to  Mr.  Lucas,  to  whom  I  had  long 
promised  to  sit,  and  accordingly  he  is  coming  on  Monday, 
although,  as  I  hope  and  believe  that  what  he  is  about  to  do 
is  only  a  drawing,  it  will  hardly  last  longer  than  a  couple  of 
days.  Do  you  (yourself,  dear  Emily  says,  so  charming  an 
artist)  know  John  Lucas's  portraits?  It  is  not  a  noisy  repu- 
tation ;  he  exhibits  little,  never  took  the  trouble  of  belong- 
ing to  the  Academy,  and  is  seldom  puffed  in  the  newspapers. 
But  somehow  or  other  the  best  judges,  the  most  refined  peo- 
ple, go  to  him.  The  duke  (who,  perhaps  no  great  connois- 
seur himself,  yet  lives  among  those  who  are)  sits  reluctantly 
to  any  one  else,  and  generally  refers  all  who  ask  him  to 
"John  Lucas's  last  picture."  I  suppose  he  has  painted  him 
some  fifty  times.  Sir  Robert  Peel  emplo3^ed  him  to  finish 
the  Gallery  of  Contemporary  Statesmen,  which  Sir  Thomas 
Laurence  began — I  don't  think  any  other  artist  worked  at 
it — and  now  he  is  busy  with  another  class  of  eminent  men, 
our  great  engineers,  having  painted  the  Stephensons,  father 
and  son,  especially  George  Stephenson,  the  elder  and  greater 
of  the  two,  almost  as  often  as  the  duke.  His  whole  career 
is  one  delightful  to  contemplate — a  struggle,  always  a  strug- 
gle, and  sometimes  a  very  hard  one,  but  patient,  self-deny- 
ing, virtuous,  indomitable,  and  finally  successful.  His  father, 
a  junior  clerk  in  the  war-office,  died  early,  and  this,  his  eldest 
son,  was  placed  as  apprentice  to  Mr.  Reynolds,  an  eminent 
mezzotint  engraver.  He  told  everybody  that  he  would  not 
be  an  engraver  —  that  he  would  be  a  painter,  and  nothing 
else:  but  an  engraver  he  was  doomed  to  be;  even  running 


368  '  Lucas. 

away  did  not  change  his  destiny.  They  coaxed  him  back, 
so  there  he  stayed  from  fourteen  to  twenty -one,  working 
from  nine  in  the  morning  till  eight  at  night,  stealing  all  his 
mornings  and  half  his  meal-times  for  copying  the  fine  pict- 
ures his  master  had  to  engrave  (the  "  Chapeau  de  Faille  " 
amongst  the  rest).  By  the  time  he  was  twenty  he  had  made 
for  himself  so  much  reputation  as  an  oil-painter  as  to  have 
two  or  three  portraits  to  paint  among  the  professional  peo- 
ple (clergymen  and  physicians)  of  the  neighborhood,  and 
Mr.  Reynolds  gave  him  one  day  in  the  week  to  fulfil  his 
commissions,  the  fifty-two  days  having  to  be  replaced  after 
the  apprenticeshiiD  had  expired.  When  that  hour  of  release 
arrived,  he  offered  him  a  large  salary  to  remain  with  him,  as 
Cornish  (also  one  of  his  pupils)  had  done ;  but  our  painter 
refused,  flung  himself  courageously  upon  the  higher  branch- 
es of  art,  and  through  many  privations  has  won  at  forty-five 
his  present  position.  A  most  charming  person  he  is.  I 
owe  him  immense  good-will  as  being  one  of  the  few  young 
men  of  genius  who  have  not  disappointed  my  enthusiasm; 
in  general  they  lose  heart,  or  they  lose  temper,  or  ihey  go 
astray,  or  they  die.  I  think  a  portrait  of  me  v^'as  the  third 
he  painted  after  he  left  Mr.  Reynolds,  through  the  interven- 
tion of  Mr.  Milton,  Mrs.  Trollope's  brother,  my  old  friend 
and  neighbor,  interested  in  him  because  his  father  had  been 
a  clerk  in  the  war-office,  where  he  held  a  higher  post.  From 
that  hour  we  have  been  fast  friends.  The  moment  he  had 
a  house  he  installed  his  mother  in  it;  he  has  been  a  father 
to  his  younger  brothers;  he  married  a  pretty,  amiable,  do- 
mestic woman  for  love;  he  despises  all  fineries,  and  is,  as  I 
said  before,  a  most  charming  person — delightful  in  manner, 
in  conversation,  and  in  appearance.     He  looks  good. 

What  is  very  odd  is  that,  just  before  this  affair  of  Mr, 
Bentley,  my  maid  K.  had  shown  a  miniature,  taken  of  me 
when  between  three  and  four  years  old,  to  a  friend  of  mine 
who  took  a  fancy  to  it.  I  let  him  have  it,  of  course,  and 
now  it  seems  that  is  in  course  of  being  engraved  also,  to  the 
great  begrudging  of  Mr.  Bentley,  who  wants  both,  and  I  sup- 
pose will  finally  have  a  second  engraving  of  the  miniature. 
So  there  will  be  the  little  childish  face  and  the  poor  old 


Moore.  369 

miserable  cripple  of  nowadays  side  by  side — a  morality  as 
good  as  a  death's  head  and  cross-bones  any  day. 

What  did  I  say  about  Mr.  Moore,  I  wonder?  One's  only 
misgiving  should  be  the  apparent  presumption  of  saying  any- 
thing at  all,  my  chief  knowledge  of  him  being  the  meeting 
him  at  the  houses  of  mutual  friends,  and  hearing  of  him 
often  from  those  who  knew  him  well  and  loved  him  most. 
A  most  delightful  person  he  was,  and,  I  believe,  a  most 
amiable  one.  The  sins  of  the  foolish  volume,  which  did  not 
bear  his  name,  were,  I  believe,  by  none  more  regretted  than 
himself.  When  one  looks  at  the  works  of  Herrick,  for  in- 
stance—  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England  —  it  does 
seem  strange  how  such  refinement  can  be  joined  with  such 
grossness.  The  political  squibs  I  have  seen,  and  (don't  be 
angry,  now)  I  confess  that  I  think  that  there  (especially  in 
bits  of  the  Judge  family)  lay  his  forte — some  of  the  fun  in 
those  letters  has  not  been  exceeded  even  by  Mr.  Barham 
(Thomas  Ingoldsby).  I  am  quite  sure  that,  except  upon  the 
ground  of  partiality,  I  might  always  trust  to  you  as  regards 
myself,  your  judgment  being  better  than  my  own. 

Thank  you  very  much  for  "The  Slingsby  Papers."  I 
had  seen  and  heard  enough  of  them  to  wish  to  see  more, 
and  have  just  been  reading  with  great  interest  the  "Legend 
of  St.  Valentine."  I  like  those  stories  of  Martyrology.  Mr. 
Kingsley  told  me  that  except  his  own  father  1  was  the  only 
one  who  had  ever  spoken  to  him  of  Lockhart's  fine  novel 
"Valerius."  Thank  you  very  much.  The  other  day  I  re- 
ceived out  of  Wales,  sent  by  somebody  who,  signing  his  or 
her  letter  with  five  initials  and  a  surname  (Wynne),  left  the 
gender  uncertain,  an  unpublished  charade  of  Mr.  Reed's, 
very  different  from  any  of  the  others — a  charade  in  three 
pictures,  and  in  the  old  ten-syllable  couplet,  but  full  of  his 
ease  and  taste  and  matchless  grace.  You  shall  have  a  copy 
in  my  next  despatch. 

Another  present  I  have  had — an  old  cane,  the  real  and 
veritable  cane  always  used  by  the  celebrated  speaker  Lent- 
hall,  and  handed  down  in  the  family  as  an  heirloom.  It 
looks  two  hundred  years  old,  tough,  and  dry,  and  incredibly 
light,  with  a  top  of  enamelled  copper,  the  tip  broken  off  (be- 

16* 


370  Literature. 

headed,  so  to  say,  by  that  benevolent  Roundhead),  and  dec- 
orated by  a  sort  of  loop  and  tassel  of  plaited  leather.  Look- 
ing after  his  name  as  appended  to  one  of  the  letters  signed 
by  him,  but  written  by  Milton,  I  was  amused  to  see  that 
Christina  of  Sweden  was  addressed  as  Queen  of  the  Goths 
and  Vandals. 

Did  I  tell  Emily  Jephson  a  story  of  Mr.  Byron,  the  Shel- 
ley letter -forger,  and  his  doings  with  Mr,  Bennett?  It  is 
curious.  If  you  do  not  know  that,  it  must  be  also  for  the 
next  packet.  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  that  I 
believe  your  business  life  is  good  for  your  talent  as  an  au- 
thor. My  friend,  Mr.  Bennett,  has  just  joined  his  brother 
in  Cheapside,  whose  watchmaking  and  jewelry  business  is 
the  greatest  in  the  city  of  London,  and  he  agrees  with  me 
that  it  does  add  tone  and  muscle  to  the  otherwise  too  deli- 
cate and  unsubstantial  turn  of  genius. 

All  success  to  your  literary  negotiations  !    I  should  augur 

well  of  a  prose  tale  by  you.     Well !   I  think  you  will  not 

again  be  in  haste  to  encourage  me  to  write  you  long  letters 

■ — I  that  live  like  a  sort  of  female  hermit  in  the  quietest  nook 

in  England.      Ever,  dear  friend. 

Very  faithfully  yours,     M.  R.  Mitford. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Digby  Starkey,  Esq. 

April  29, 1852. 
Well,  my  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  I  wonder  if  I  shall  tire  you  of 
my  letters  ?  I'm  going  to  try,  because,  if  I've  to  write  an- 
other book,  as  they  tell  me,  it  follows,  of  course,  that  I  shall 
give  my  correspondents  some  respite,  and,  therefore,  may  as 
well  weary  them  first.  Let  me  say  how  very  glad  I  am  that 
my  letter  reached  you,  and  that  the  little  note  did  its  busi- 
ness. I  hope  that  the  MS.  will  find  a  vacancy,  for  that  will 
probably  be  the  question.  I  take  for  granted  that  they  have 
hundreds  of  offers  at  this  moment,  and  cannot  always  be  ex- 
pected to  keep  a  place  for  the  best.  Chance  has  something 
to  do  in  these  things,  as  well  as  choice.  As  to  Mr.  Lang- 
ford,  I  wish  you  had  an  hour  to  give  him.  He  would  have 
told  you  all  the  chit-chat  of  London  literature,  and  would 
have  let  you  find  out  a  fine  manly  nature  under  the  gossip- 


Landseer.  ^yi 

ing.  For  my  part,  I  have  been  listening  to  the  artistical  chit- 
chat of  my  clear  friend  Mr.  Lucas — infinitely  amusing  when 
one  happens  to  know  the  people.  Do  a-ou  know  Sir  Edwin 
Landseer?  Mr.  Lucas  and  he  live  just  opposite  at  St.  John's 
Wood,  and  frequently  walk  home  together  from  great  houses 
where  they  have  dined,  that  being  their  chief  acquaintance- 
ship, for  they  are  far  too  different  men  to  be  intimate.  Know- 
ing that  they  often  met,  Mr.  Peto,  when  sitting  to  Mr.  Lucas, 
requested  him  to  take  a  message  for  him  to  Sir  Edwin.  Ac- 
cordingly, during  their  next  night's  walk  my  friend  said,  "  I 
am  commissioned  by  Mr.  Peto  to  ask  you  to  do  him  the 
favor  to  paint  him  a  picture — on  your  own  subject,  of  your 
own  size,  at  your  own  price,  at  your  own  time.  His  offer  is 
quite  unlimited.  He  leaves  all  to  you."  "  Really,"  responded 
the  little  dog-painter,  "  I  cannot  give  any  promise  at  present ; 
but  I'll  bear  it  in  my  mind."  I  wish  you  had  heard  the  ex- 
quisite touch  of  mimicry  with  which  John  Lucas  (who  is 
himself  an  exceedingly  delightful  compound  of  courtliness 
and  manliness)  drawled  out,  in  the  finest  whisper,  "  I'll  bear 
it  in  mind."  There  was  an  answer  to  a  commission  more 
than  royal — for  I  am  quite  sure  that  (except  Louis  Napoleon) 
there  is  not  a  prince  now  alive  who  would  have  given  such 
a  one.  But  Landseer  is  faithful  to  his  worship  of  lords.  If 
a  peerage  had  been  given  to  Mr.  Peto  last  year — all  Peto 
and  all  engineer  as  he  is — the  answer  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent. What  is  worse,  this  coxcombry  is  spreading  among 
these  really  great  artists — Lewis  is  come  back  from  Cairo 
just  as  exclusive,  making  it  a  far  greater  favor  to  paint  for 
people  than  any  of  the  immortal  painters  of  the  great  age 
of  Art.  He  seems  to  have  been  cultivating  coxcombry  dur- 
ing his  long  residence  in  the  East.  Thackeray,  with  whom 
he  had  been  intimate  in  London,  went  to  see  him  at  Cairo, 
and  found  him  in  a  room  fitted  up  with  divans  and  carpets 
in  a  style  perfectly  Oriental,  with  a  beard  to  his  waist.  The 
painter  never  rose,  but  waved  his  hand  for  his  visitor  to  be 
seated,  and  for  several  minutes  there  they  sat  as  silent  as 
two  pachas.  At  last  Mr.  Lewis  clapped  his  hands,  and  a 
whole  covey  of  black  boys,  pretty  much  of  a  size,  all  properly 
turbaned  and  trousered  and  besashed,  made  their  appear- 


372  Mifs  Mit ford's  Portrait. 

ance  with  trays  of  coffee  and  sweetmeats  and  rose-water, 
and  chibouks.  Having  drunk  their  coffee  and  begun  to 
smoke,  the  Orientalized  EngHshman  found  his  tongue,  and 
it  is  to  be  presumed  that  Mr.  Thackeray  did  not  depart  witiv 
out  reading  him  a  lesson. 

My  friend  is  of  another  stamp.  I  know  nobody  so  agree- 
able. He  has  made  a  portrait  of  me,  ugly  old  woman  as  I 
am,  which  is  really  a  miracle  of  art.  I  wish  you  could  see 
it.  He  calls  it  an  oil  sketch — the  background  and  figure 
being  very  slightly  painted,  but  the  head  (half  the  size  of 
life)  finished  almost  like  a  miniature.  It  is  an  oval  picture. 
I  cannot  fancy  that  the  engraver  will  transmit  the  expression, 
which  is  the  wonderful  point  of  this  extraordinary  portrait, 
to  the  steel.  How  a  painter  can  convey  anything  so  evanes- 
cent, so  ideal,  to  the  canvas  is  wonder  enough  !  All  who 
have  seen  it  cry  out  upon  the  likeness,  which  is  as  a  looking- 
glass,  but  it  seems  to  me,  as  far  as  that  remarkable  expres- 
sion goes,  to  look  not  as  I  ever  do,  but  as  it  is  just  possible 
I  might  do.  It  is  not  at  all  animated,  which  would  be  the 
trap  into  which  a  vulgar  artist  would  undoubtedly  have  fallen 
in  painting  me,  but  thoughtful  and  affectionate.  Well,  you 
will  come  and  see  me  myself,  I  do  trust,  before  the  summer 
is  over.  You  may  see  thousands  better  worth  looking  at 
and  listening  to,  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  but  you  will  hardly  find 
anybody  more  rejoiced  to  make  acquaintance  with  you. 

Then  I  have  had  a  visit  from  a  young  Cambridge  student, 
a  poet  of  the  newest  school,  who  won't  be  a  barrister,  as  his 
mother  desires,  but  will  be  a  poet,  and  only  a  poet,  nothing 
else.  I  knew  his  father  well,  a  most  brilliant  man,  who 
might  have  sat  for  the  fine  character  of  Clarence  Hervey  in 
that  novel  of  Miss  Edgeworth's  which  for  brilliancy  and 
tenderness  has  always  seemed  to  me  her  best — "Belinda." 
His  destiny  was  a  mistaken,  although  not  an  unprosperous, 
one,  and,  now  that  he  has  been  long  dead,  the  mother  and 
elder  brother  and  aunts  think  him  revived  in  this  boy.  I 
do  not.  The  father  had  a  magnificent  gift  of  public  speak- 
ing, and  added  to  the  buoyant  and  graceful  lightness  of  old 
English  comedy  an  earnestness  without  which  there  can  be 
no  eloquence,  and  hardly,  I  think,  any  poetry.     This  youth 


Conceit.  373 

is  a  handsome  coxcomb,  without  the  slightest  enthusiasm, 
without,  as  it  seems  to  me,  the  power  of  admiring  anything 
or  anybody;  for  those  whom  he  does  patronize — the  Jerrolds, 
and  Diclcenses,  and  Robert  Brownings — he  patronizes  with  a 
full  sense  of  his  condescension,  whilst  he  very  heartily  dis- 
claims all  acquaintance  with  Pope  or  Dryden  (observe  that 
his  own  first  essay  is  a  volume  called  "Stories  from  Boc- 
caccio"), and  rather  boasts  that,  although  he  has  tried  to 
read  Scott's  novels,  he  cannot  get  on  with  them.  I  think 
it  would  be  no  bad  plan  to  introduce  him  to  Sir  Edwin  and 
Mr.  Lewis,  and  just  see  what  they  thought  of  each  other. 
It  might  turn  out  a  society  for  mutual  improvement.  How- 
ever, they  are  painters,  and  great  painters  in  their  way — 
whilst  what  will  become  of  this  poor  boy  there  is  no  telling. 
He  minces  his  words  like  Landseer,  and  sticks  his  glass  in 
his  eye.  The  only  thing  worth  repeating  that  I  ever  heard 
from  him  is  2^  good-natured  hon-mot  of  Jerrold's.  They  were 
talking  of  epitaphs  at  Charles  Knight's,  and  asked  the 
malicious  little  wit  to  furnish  one  for  their  host.  "It  should 
be  very  short," said  Jerrold — "Good  Night."  Nothing  can 
be  happier  than  this. 

I  am  in  a  vein  to-night  of  writing  the  wrong  word  for  the 
right — just  as  compositors  print — and  can  only  beg  you  to 
be  as  indulgent  as  the  Moore  committee.  What  a  mistake ! 
But  there  are  fifty  such  in  my  last  book,  not,  I  hope,  repro- 
duced in  the  Paris  edition,  or  in  the  American  ones.  I  had 
thought  that  the  new  international  law  would  have  put  a 
stop  to  Galignani's  reprints,  but  it  has  not.  Where  the  de- 
mand is  large,  he  finds  it  more  profitable  to  purchase  the 
copyright  in  France  of  the  English  publisher  than  to  import 
the  work.  By  the  way,  without  having  any  personal  cause 
to  delight  in  Mr.  Bentley,  I  think  him  perfectly  right  in  the 
bold  stand  he  is  making  against  the  other  great  publishers, 
and  give  him  all  possible  credit  for  his  ability  and  his  moral 
courage.  I  have  good  cause  to  believe  those  very  able 
statements  which  bear  his  name  to  be  his  own  writing,  be- 
cause I  have  had  from  him  two  or  three  private  letters  on 
the  subject,  even  more  condensed,  and  more  lucid.  He  was 
educated  at  St.  Paul's  School,  and  is  certainly  a  clever  man. 


374  Lamartine. 

You  will  understand,  dear  friend,  that  what  I  feared  about 
Mr.  Moore  was  seeming  to  arrogate  greater  intimacy  with  a 
distinguished  man  than  actually  existed.  I  had  seen  him 
often,  often  sat  next  him  at  dinner;  we  have  exchanged 
notes  occasionally,  and  were  excellent  friends,  but  neither 
of  us  living  in  London,  nor  within  visiting  distance  in  the 
country,  I  have  never  been  at  his  house,  and  he,  I  think, 
only  once  at  our  cottage  ;  though,  if  I  had  gone  near  Sloper- 
ton,  I  should  undoubtedly  have  accepted  his  repeated  invi- 
tations, and  have  gone  to  see  one  whom  I  always  found  so 
pleasant  and  so  kind.  You  will  comprehend  that  aversion 
to  claiming  acquaintance  with  great  people  who  might  dis- 
claim me.  It  sometimes  leads  one  into  the  contrary  fault, 
and  I  find  people  saying,  "  Why,  he  said  that  he  knew  you." 

So  you  are  reading  Lamartine's  "Restoration."  I  was 
like  my  young  poet  with  Scott's  novels,  and  could  not  get  on 
with  it  anyhow.  I  am  afraid  that  I  like  nothing  heartily  of 
Lamartine's,  except  "  Le  Lac,"  and  "  Jocelyn  "  (a  little),  and 
"Les  Girondins" — that  charming  romance  (he  calls  it  a 
history),  which,  knowing  it  all  by  reading  a  dozen  real  his- 
tories, and  a  hundred  memoirs  of  the  period,  yet  carries  one 
on,  partly  by  subject,  partly  by  style.  I  suppose  that  he  is 
always  false,  but  in  "  Les  Girondins"  one  is  beguiled  into 
forgetting  that  great  literary  sin  ;  for  it  is  worse  than  a  fault. 
If  you  have  happened  to  read  his  half-dozen  autobiographies 
(for  such  they  are  under  different  names),  you  will  find  that, 
at  three  or  four  different  dates,  fifteen  years  asunder,  he  calls 
himself  twenty — his  favorite  age — and  indeed,  in  something 
written  a  year  or  two  ago,  he  speaks  of  himself  as  then  a 
man  still  in  his  prime,  in  the  summer  of  his  days,  or  words 
to  that  effect — and  he  was  sixty  then  !  Ah,  if  he  had  my 
rheumatism  ! !  Vanity  is  the  ruling  motive  there,  of  course, 
and  I  suppose  that  wounded  vanity — something  that  Louis 
Napoleon  has  done,  or  left  undone,  personally  towards  him — 
is  his  reason  for  publishing  this  weak  and  dull  attack  upon 
the  emperor.  But  his  incapacity  for  appreciating  truth  is 
best  shown  in  "Genevieve,"  where,  without  any  possible  per- 
sonal motive,  he  shows  an  indifference  to  it  which  is  almost 
inconceivable  in  one  who  has  so  long  practised  writing  as 


Lamartine.  375 

an  art.  Do  you  remember  that  the  whole  gist  of  the  story 
turns  on  this  pattern  woman  of  the  people  sacrificing  her 
own  reputation,  losing  the  man  of  her  heart,  making  him 
miserable,  and  oversetting  the  comfort  of  a  whole  family  by 
accepting  the  scandal  of  a  natural  child  in  order  to  preserve 
a  dead  sister  and  her  dead  lover  (for  there  is  nobody  left 
alive  to  profit  by  the  lie)  from  the  blame,  the  posthumous 
blame  of  their  fault — in  the  more  romantic  words  of  the 
writer,  to  preserve  unstained  the  funeral  garland  of  the  sister 
whom  she  loved  ?  It  is  the  exact  reverse  of  Jeanie  Deans, 
and  in  my  mind  both  were  wrong.  I  would  have  told  the 
lie  in  Jeanie's  case,  the  less  evil  of  the  two,  but  in  Ge'nevibve's 
it  was  a  deliberate  preference  of  falsehood  for  no  cause 
whatever.  She  lied  for  lying's  sake.  And  this  runs  all 
through  Lamartine's  writings,  and  was  the  cause  of  his  fall. 
I  am  very  fond  of  French  literature,  with  all  its  sins — I 
know  it,  I  think,  better  than  English.  God  bless  you,  dear 
friend!  Ever  faithfully  yours,  M.  R.  IMitford. 

Miss  Jephson  to  Digbv  Starkey,  Esq. 

May  I. 

My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — There  is  a  new  pleasure  for  me 
connected  with  dear  Miss  Mitford's  letters  of  late,  for  I  have 
now  and  then  something  to  send  you  that  I  know  you  like. 
Is  not  her  description  of  the  ungenial  season  very  poetical? 
It  reminds  one  of  Titania's.  The  east  wind  has  not  done 
us  such  wrong ;  our  wild-flowers  blow,  and  our  birds  sing, 
but  I  have  not  yet  seen  a  swallow.  Is  there  an  instinct  that 
tells  the  swallows  what  the  weather  is  in  the  distant  countries 
to  which  they  are  about  to  migrate  and  retards  their  flight 
tliither  ?  or  do  they  come,  and,  meeting  the  harsh  wind,  with- 
draw till  it  is  gone  ?  .  .  . 

If  the  faith  which  has  the  least  foundation  is  the  most 
meritorious,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  Louis  Napoleon  faith 
has  extraordinary  merit.  Pray  hope  for  me  in  that  Mr. 
Bentley  will  be  generous,  and  that  I  shall  have  the  two  por- 
traits; I  have  one  of  Miss  M.  by  Lucas,  and  it  is  very  like, 
but  the  dress  is  unsuited  to  the  face,  and  entirely  spoils  it. 
I  wrote  to  you  yesterday.  E.  J. 


37^  Verses. 

The  following  letter  from  Miss  Mitford  is  enclosed : 

Miss  Mitford  /o  Miss  Jephson. 

April  26, 1852. 
My  very  dear  Emily, — There  are  not  many  people  to 
whom  I  should  venture  to  send  poetry  addressed  to  myself, 
and,  to  say  the  truth,  I  receive  so  much  of  the  peculiar 
rhymes  which  the  old  poets  used  to  call  "  commendatory 
verses  "  that  I  have  a  perfect  horror  of  the  sight  of  lines  be- 
ginning with  capitals  and  ending  (but  in  these  days  of  lax 
versification  they  very  seldom  do  so  end)  with  similar  sounds. 
However,  the  accompanying  lines  seem  to  me  quite  an  ex- 
ception to  my  rule  of  aversion — are  they  not  charming?* 
The  writer  is  a  young  and  beautiful  girl,  daughter  of  a  veter- 
inary surgeon  in  Reading,  who  was  introduced  to  me  when 
about  fourteen,  and  whom  I  have  supplied  with  books  and 
seen  frequently  ever  since.     She  is  a  sweet,  open-hearted 


*  These  lines,  which  have  been  given  in  the  "  Life  of  M.  R.  Mitford," 
are  as  follows : 

On  being  Asked  if  Miss  Mitford  were  not  Old. 

Ye  would  not  ask  it  of  the  sun  that  shines  upon  us  daily, 

Or  of  the  fleecy  painted  clouds  that  float  above  us  gayly, 

Or  of  the  spring's  returning  flowers,  or  the  dew  their  petals  lading, 

Or  of  the  heaven-besprinkling  stars,  when  morn  their  gold  is  fading, 

Or  of  the  crested  billows,  when  upon  the  shore  they're  casting 

Their  flashing  sprays  of  diamonds  ;  for  ye  know  them  everlasting 

Till  their  Ruler's  might  shall  gather  them  within  his  wondrous  holding. 

For  which  we  look  half  fearfully — frail  creatures  of  his  moulding. 

The  beautiful  is  never  old.     Our  minds  are  still  extending, 

And  new  emotions  of  the  soul  are  with  each  moment  blending ; 

And  so  her  spirit  seems  to  me  an  ever-rising  mountain, 

Upon  whose  glorious  sides  still  plays  the  broad  Castalian  fountain; 

Or  as  an  oak,  whose  green  boughs  spread,  and  throw  luxuriantly 

A  shelter  o'er  small  birds  of  song — scarce  worthy  there  to  be; 

But  verdure  rests  upon  her  leaves,  they  dread  no  frost's  decaying; 

Her  charm  upon  the  landscape  cast  will  evermore  be  staying. 

As  'mid  her  own  dear  village  haunts,  my  gauntlet  down  I'm  flinging, 

The  very  birds  that  flutter  round  are  blithe  my  measure  singing. 

She  is  not  old.     The  sjjirit's  youth  will  but  to  heaven  be  winging. 

Marianne  Parry. 
Reading,  April  26,  1852. 


Portraits.  377 

creature.  Her  father  is  lately  dead,  and  an  uncle,  a  surgeon 
in  India,  married,  and  without  a  family,  has  sent  for  her  to 
live  with  them,  not  to  get  a  husband — I  would  answer  with 
my  life  for  Marianne's  delicacy  and  fastidiousness — but  to 
be  taken  as  a  daughter.  There  is  a  sister  to  remain  with 
the  mother,  who  tearfully  consents  to  a  project  so  advanta- 
geous (for  the  uncle  and  aunt  are  educated  and  accomplished 
people),  and  the  poor  child  herself  is  half  broken-hearted, 
and  yet  full  of  grateful  affection  towards  those  to  whom  she 
is  going.  It's  a  contest  of  feeling — all  right  and  natural. 
May  God's  mercy  go  with  her !  She  is  a  sweet  creature,  and 
certainly  a  girl  of  far  more  genius  than  the  many  I  know 
who  set  up  for  great  poetesses. 

Mr.  Lucas,  who  was  here  when  they  arrived,  and  is  a  man 
of  very  fine  taste,  was  so  struck  with  the  lines  that  he  has 
made  his  boy,  who  was  also  here,  copy  them  for  his  mother's 
album.  Perhaps,  my  love,  you  do  not  know  why  Mr.  Lucas 
was  here.  It  has  pleased  Fate,  in  the  shape  of  Mr.  Bentley, 
to  set  his  heart  on  portraits  of  me.  There  are  two  engrav- 
ings to  be  made  of  a  miniature  taken  when  I  was  between 
three  and  four  years  old — and  he  wants  the  miniature  into 
the  bargain,  or,  rather,  he  grudges  it  to  Mr.  Bennett,  to  whom 
it  is  irrevocably  given  ;  and  now  that  Mr.  Lucas,  incompara- 
bly the  finest  painter  of  female  portraits  now  alive,  has  con- 
descended to  come  and  take  me,  he  is  not  content  with  the 
engraving,  which  he  is  to  have,  but  he  covets  the  picture.  I 
fancy,  if  he  can  get  his  engraving  of  the  miniature  done  soon 
enough,  that  both  are  to  appear  in  the  new  number  of  his 
miscellany,  which  he  is  working  to  get  up  by  first-rate  illus- 
trations. Afterwards  they  will  appear  in  their  legitimate 
place  in  future  editions  of  my  last  book,  or  at  the  head  of 
another,  if  I  live  to  write  one.  I  wonder  whether  Mr.  Bent- 
ley,  who  is  making  a  great  deal  of  money  of  the  "  Recollec- 
tions," will  send  me  any  copies  of  the  engravings.  If  he  do, 
it  would  be  a  singular  pleasure  to  send  you  one  of  them ; 
but  it  is  doubtful.  The  American  publishers  purchased  the 
early  sheets  of  him,  and  now,  under  the  new  law,  he  is  mak- 
ing Galignani  (forced  to  reprint  it  in  Paris  from  the  large 
demand  there)  pay  for  the  right  of  publication  in  France. 


378  Cold  Season. 

If  the  engraving  approach  the  high  artistic  value  of  Mr. 
Lucas's  picture,  it  will  be  no  common  print,  for  certainly  so 
successful  a  portrait  was  never  taken.  It  tried  us  both,  for 
I  sat  and  he  painted  nine  hours  a  da)';  and  on  Saturday 
my  legs  were  so  much  swollen  that  both  K.  and  I  thought 
my  stockings  must  have  been  cut  off.  Till  the  east  wind 
abates,  there  is  no  chance  of  amendment,  and  Professor  Airy 
says  we  are  to  have  five  weeks  more.  For  two  months  not 
a  drop  of  rain  has  fallen.  We  have  sharp  frosts  every  night ; 
the  hedges  are  bare,  the  very  oaks  are  let  stand,  because  the 
sap  has  not  risen  enough  to  back  them.  The  flowers  refuse 
to  blow  in  wood  or  field,  or,  if  a  few  rare  and  reluctant  blos- 
soms appear,  they  are  scentless.  I  have  only  once  heard 
the  nightingale  amongst  our  coppices  or  our  woody  lanes, 
and  in  this  place,  literally  named  after  the  swallow,  not  one 
has  appeared.  Never  in  my  remembrance  has  there  been 
so  severe  a  season.  It  has  carried  off  too  many  of  my 
dearest  friends,  amongst  the  rest  my  most  kind  and  accom- 
plished neighbor.  Sir  Henry  Russell,  and  I  fear  his  death 
will  eventually  deprive  me  of  Miss  Russell,  my  own  Anne ; 
for,  although  the  new  baronet  be  a  nice  lad,  yet  one  cannot 
expect  a  gay  young  Guardsman  to  live  quietly  with  his 
mother  and  sisters. 

I  had  a  charming  letter,  or  note  rather,  from  dear  Mr. 
Starkey,  containing  a  half  promise  to  come  to  see  me  in  the 
summer — Heaven  send  it  come  true!  I  am  expecting  my 
glorious  Americans  now  in  Paris,  and  tribes  of  people  from 
London,  and  dear  Lady  Stanley — only  think  of  our  having 
in  common  the  Louis  Napoleon  faith !  Mrs.  Browning  is 
more  zealous  in  his  cause  than  ever,  and  says  that  every- 
body in  Paris  is  coming  round.  Do  read  the  "Prisoner  of 
Ham,"  in  spite  of  its  bad  English.  It  is  the  most  interest- 
ing account  of  an  escape  ever  written,  and  there  are  bits  of 
his  own  writing  that  even  the  vile  translation  cannot  rob  of 
the  charming  sentiment.  Adieu,  my  very  dear  love.  Be- 
lieve me,  ever  most  affectionately  yours, 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 


Louis  Napoleon.  379 

Miss  Jephson  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

June  15. 

My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — I  am  very  glad  that  you  find  so 
much  pleasure  in  Miss  Mitford's  correspondence,  and  I  am 
sure  that  yours  is  equally  delightful  to  her.  Your  kindness 
in  saying  that  you  owe  anything  to  me  is  very  gratifying,  but 
the  truth  is  that  your  first  letter  to  her  was  the  origin  of  the 
friendship  which  has  grown  and  flourished  so  happily.  I 
cannot  help  being  sorry  that  she  will  not  know  your  reasons 
for  not  admiring  Louis  Napoleon  as  she  does,  which  she 
will  probably  infer  from  your  silence  on  the  subject.  She 
can  bear  very  well  a  difference  of  opinion  on  most  points,  I 
believe,  but,  as  you  say,  her  feelings  seem  strongly  engaged 
on  the  side  of  Louis  Napoleon.  I  tried  in  vain  some  time 
ago  to  get  "Inez  de  Castro,"  and  others  asked  Miss  Mitford 
to  lend  it  to  me  for  you ;  but  it  seems  that  it  never  was 
printed.     I  enclose  her  answer  to  my  request. 

The  following  is  the  letter  referred  to  : 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson. 

My  very  dear  Emily, — I  am  in  so  much  haste  that  I 
t-  foresee  this  will  be  merely  a  scrap ;  but  I  wished  to  tell  you 
that  "Inez  de  Castro,"  although  three  times  in  rehearsal, 
was  never  acted,  and  therefore  never  printed.  I  am  not 
even  sure  that  I  have  a  MS.  copy.  If  I  have,  I  suppose  that 
some  time  or  other  I  shall  make  a  volume  of  tragedies  old 
and  new,  for  my  very  best,  "  Otto  of  Wittelsbach,"  is  in  a 
similar  predicament — at  all  events,  the  whole  will  be  printed 
after  I  am  dead.  I  have  most  interesting  accounts  of  the 
Prince  President  from  Mrs.  Browning  and  Mr.  Fields,  whom 
I  expect  here  soon,  and  who  will,  I  hope,  bring  me  a  cart- 
load of  books  about  him.  I  told  him  to  get  me  all,  and  the 
best  portraits.  He  says  that  none  do  justice  to  his  pale, 
earnest  face,  with  its  look  of  deep  feeling,  and  the  calm, 
gracious  English  manner  as  he  saw  him  for  two  hours  when 
sitting  almost  close  to  him  at  a  ball  at  the  Tuileries.  He 
said  to  Madame  Sand,  on  parting  from  her,  after  granting 


380  Regatta. 

all  she  asked  and  begging  her  to  visit  him  again, "  Vous 
verrez,  vous  serez  contente  de  moi."  To  which  she  replied, 
"Et  vous,  vous  serez  content  de  moi."  Was  not  this  ex- 
ceedingly nice  on  both  sides,  especially  on  his  ?  I  have  a 
long,  interesting  letter  from  Mrs.  Trollope  at  Florence,  act- 
ing charades — what  a  woman  ! 

Miss  Jephson  to  D.  Starkey,  Esq. 

July  29, 1852. 

My  dear  Mr,  Starkey, — Here  is  a  letter  which  I  will 
transcribe  before  I  send  it  to  you  to-day,  so  pray  keep  it ;  is 
not  this  generous  of  me,  because,  if  I  asked  you  to  return  it,  I 
should  hz.ve,  perhaps,  a  few  lines  from  you,  which  I  much 
long  for. 

Yesterday  I  went  with  Mrs.  Halloran  and  Mrs.  Chatterton 
to  the  regatta,  and  was  charmed  with  the  beauty  and  the 
novelty,  to  me,  of  all  that  I  saw.  We  drove  to  Ballinacurragh, 
five  miles  from  hence,  and  there  found  a  crowded  steamer, 
which  took  us  to  Queenstown.  The  views  on  both  sides 
were  charming,  and  then  it  opened  into  that  magnificent 
harbor  which  you  know.  The  fleet  was  gone,  but  the  re- 
gatta was  what  I  shall  never  forget.  It  was  more  like  a 
beautiful  oil-painting,  at  one  particular  moment,  than  reality. 
The  sea  was  then  quite  calm,  and  of  such  an  exquisite  color. 
— land,  sky,  and  sea  were  each  and  all  perfection ;  ships  and 
boats  innumerable,  from  the  AJax  man-of-war  to  a  tiny 
steamer  which  could  only  hold  ten  men,  but  had  its  chimney 
smoking,  its  paddle-boxes,  all  that  belongs  to  a  steamer  in 
miniature.  Some  ships  were  dressed  out  with  colors,  which 
had  a  beautiful  effect ;  boats  were  passing,  the  boatmen 
wearing  crimson  handkerchiefs  on  their  heads  and  white 
jackets;  the  yachts,  with  their  white  sails,  but  no  wind  to 
sail  with ;  crowds  on  shore,  all  colors  of  ladies'  dresses, 
parasols,  etc.  There  was  a  rowing-match  with  boats  called 
gigs,  very  narrow  and  shallow;  each  boat  looked  like  noth- 
ing more  than  a  dark  line  upon  the  water,  with  the  heads 
of  men  above  it — in  one  boat  the  rowers  all  in  white,  in  an- 
other all  in  red,  different  colors  in  each.  The  white  won, 
and  there  was  great  shouting.  There  is  hope  that  the  Queen 
will  come.     I  must  try,  if  I  can,  to  see  her. 


lUnefs  of  Mifs  Mitford.  381 

The  other  day,  reading  Carlyle's  "Life  of  Oliver  Crom- 
well," I  was  reminded  of  an  observation  in  one  of  your  let- 
ters to  me  by  an  account  of  poor  Sir  W.  Raleigh's  execution. 
Carlyle  says : 

"  Such  a  man,  with  his  head  grown  gray,  with  his  strong 
heart  breaking,  stiH  strength  enough  in  it  to  break  with  dig- 
nity ;  somewhat  proudly  he  laid  his  old  gray  head  on  the 
block,  as  if  saying,  in  better  than  words, '  There,  then !'  The 
sheriff  offered  to  let  him  warm  himself  again  within  doors  at 
a  fire.  *Nay,  let  us  be  swift,'  said  Raleigh  ;  '  in  a  few  minutes 
my  ague  will  return  upon  me,  and,  if  I  be  not  dead  before 
that,  they  will  say  I  tremble  for  fear.' " 

This  weather  is  so  hot  that  I  should  be  afraid  you  were 
not  the  better  for  it,  but  that  you  have  the  fine  refreshing  sea 
2\x,part  of  the  day,  at  least,  for  I  fear  you  do  not  feel  much 
of  it  at  the  Four  Courts.  This  is  a  day  fit  only  for  butter- 
flies to  be  out  in,  who  are  all  wings,  and  have  nothing  more 
to  carry.  Ever  your  affectionate  sister, 

Emily  E.  Jephson. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson. 

July  25. 
You  will,  I  know,  dearest  Emily,  be  glad  to  hear  that,  al- 
though still  very  weak  and  feeble,  I  am  getting  on  towards 
recovery.  It  has  been  a  most  severe  attack,  and  I  cannot 
be  thankful  enough  to  my  kind  and  skilful  friend,  Mr.  May, 
and  to  my  indefatigable  nurse  K.,for  the  care  that  they  have 
taken  of  me — I  ought  to  add  all  the  Russells.  Poor  Lady 
Russell,  who  had  never  before  gone  beyond  her  park  gate 
since  her  husband's  death,  and  even  now  has  seen  nobody 
but  me,  has  come  to  me  every  evening,  and  been  to  me  as  a 
sister,  and  her  sweet  daughters  are  more  like  daughters  to 
me  than  nieces.  What  a  blessing  to  be  near  such  friends  ! 
Let  me  add  that,  as  goodness  is  generally  self- rewarding, 
their  kindness  has  certainly  done  them  all  good  by  distract- 
ing them  from  their  own  sorrow,  and  giving  them  other  things 
to  think  and  to  talk  of.  As  to  all  my  neighbors,  their  affec- 
tion has  been  really  wonderful,  and  it  is  at  present  Mr.  May's 
great  grievance  that  from  pure  gratitude  I  let  in  too  many 


382  Visitors. 

people.  You  know  how  excitable  I  am,  and  it  is  true  that 
the  very  conversation  that  gives  me  pleasure  while  it  lasts 
leaves  me  heated  and  exhausted  when  it  is  over.  However, 
I  am  getting  stronger  now.  What  a  comfort  that  you  did 
not  come  to  England  this  summer!  Mrs.  Browning  is  in 
London,  but  my  going  to  meet  her  is  out,  of  the  question,  so 
that,  except  a  visit  of  a  day  which  she  intends  to  make  me, 
I  shall  hardly  see  her  this  year ;  and  dear  Miss  Goldsmid, 
who  came  purposely  to  see  me  from  London,  arrived  when 
I  was  too  ill  even  to  see  her,  which  was  most  tantalizing.  I 
wish  you  knew  that  great  and  able  woman! 

One  visit  I  have  had  which  you  would  have  liked  to  have 
seen,  since  I  have  been  able  to  admit  one  or  two  friends. 
Two  ladies  from  Paris  sent  me  the  most  earnest  entreaties 
to  let  them  in,  an  old  lady  and  a  young  one.  The  elder, 
almost  as  wonderfid  a  person  as  Lady  Stanley,  announced 
herself  as  having  known  my  father  and  mother  before  their 
marriage,  as  having  been  present  at  the  wedding,  as  having, 
when  a  girl  of  eleven  years  old  (she  is  seventy -six)  been 
trusted  to  take  the  baby  (me)  in  her  arms.  She  remembered 
the  house  we  inhabited  at  Alresford,  the  great  dog,  the  pretty 
nursery-maid,  and  never  having  seen  any  of  us  since  we  left 
that  place,  when  I  was  between  three  and  four  years  old,  but 
having  followed  my  literary  career  with  deep  interest,  you 
may  imagine  how  much  she  was  struck  when  Galignani's 
edition  of  my  last  book  fell  into  her  hands.  She  came  from 
London  on  purpose  to  see  me,  and  fully  promises  (d.v.)  to 
pass  a  day  with  me  next  year.  She  is  a  magnificent  old 
lady,  full  of  fire  and  enthusiasm,  and  very  clever.  The  young 
one  —  I  think  a  granddaughter — was  also  very  charming. 
You  may  imagine  that  this  was  gratifying  to  both  parties. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  have  had  a  terrible  shock.  I  told  you 
of  my  visit  from  Miss  Shee  (sister  to  Sir  George  Shee,  who 
is,  I  believe,  our  minister  at  Stuttgart),  a  most  sweet  creat- 
ure, who  left  me  the  poems  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Robert  Bering. 
My  opinion  of  those  poems,  especially  of  the  exquisite  stan- 
zas called  "Church  Services,"  brought  on  one  of  those  cor- 
respondences of  heart  to  heart  and  mind  to  mind  which 
ripen  friendships  even  more  than  personal  intercourse.     I 


Hawthorne.  383 

never  read  any  letters  like  hers  in  their  delicious  grace  and 
tenderness.  There  was  a  charm  about  them — a  personal 
charm — like  the  odor  of  flowers.  She  had  been  ill,  and  her 
last  note  was  written  in  pencil  —  the  next  thing  I  heard, 
while  very  ill  myself,  was  that  she  was  dead.  She  had  sent 
me  some  beautiful  Hertfordshire  roses  to  clothe  the  front 
of  my  house,  and  now  those  roses  are  blossoming  under  my 
window,  and  the  kind  heart  that  sent  them  is  cold  in  the 
grave.  Dear  Miss  Shee  writes  most  beautifully  of  her  death. 
It  was  quite  sudden,  and  is  supposed  to  have  been  caused 
by  some  internal  rupture;  but  her  whole  life  was  a  prepara- 
tion for  death.  Nevertheless,  Miss  Shee  hardly  expects  her 
husband  to  survive  her.  There  is  only  one  son,  a  young 
man  of  great  genius  in  another  way,  who  is  one  of  the  most 
trusted  in  the  great  work  of  the  Irish  Submarine  Telegraph. 
He  seems  to  have  left  Oxford  upon  showing  this  strong  turn 
for  a  pursuit  which  now  takes  rank  with  the  learned  profes- 
sions, and  leads  at  once  to  scientific  fame  and  to  worldly 
prosperity,  and  I  trust  that  his  success  will  comfort  his  aunt 
and  father.  This  has  been  to  me  one  of  the  greatest  shocks 
that  I  have  known. 

I  have  had  an  exquisite  letter  from  Mrs.  Hawthorne,  and 
one  still  more  interesting  from  dear  Dr.  Holmes,  while  I 
have  been  so  ill,  and  have  read  Mr.  Hawthorne's  own  copy 
of  his  new  book,  "The  Blythedale  Romance" — the  actual 
copy,  which  the  moment  it  left  my  hands  went  to  his,  and 
first  showed  him  his  own  thoughts  in  print.  To  say  truth, 
I  like  it  less  than  the  other  two  great  works,  not  merely  be- 
cause it  is  too  long,  not  close  enough,  but  because  the  char- 
acters are  too  unreal  and  exceptional,  so  that  the  only  person 
whom  I  thoroughly  fancy  is  a  certain  New  England  farmer, 
by  name  Silas  Foster,  who  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story, 
and  seldom  appears  in  the  book,  but  who  is  flesh  and  blood. 
Nevertheless,  observe  that  the  book  with  all  its  faults  is  one 
that  nobody  but  Hawthorne  could  have  written,  that  the 
construction  is  magnificently  tragic,  and  that  there  are  cer- 
tain scenes  of  wonderful  power,  especially  the  search  for  the 
body  by  night,  which  is  quite  equal  to  that  in  "  Guy  Man- 
nering."     Also,  since  I  have  been  belter,  I  have  been  read- 


384  Cockburtis  "  Life  of  Lord  Jeffrey." 

ing  Lord  Cockburn's  "  Life  of  Lord  Jeffrey ;"  not  well  done, 
certainly,  but  some  of  the  later  letters  are  very  interesting; 
what  he  says  of  Silchester,  of  Fletcher,  and  of  the  Irish  songs 
and  ballads  is  so  like  what  I  have  always  thought  and  often 
said,  that  it  came  upon  me  like  an  echo,  and  was  very  pleas- 
ant from  one  whose  criticism  is,  according  to  my  fancy,  so 
much  finer  and  better  than  that  which  we  meet  now. 

N.B. — I  quite  disagree  with  him  about  Dickens,  and  it 
does  not  seem  to  me  that  he  himself  quite  thinks  all  he  says 
— by  this  I  mean  that  I  think  he  accommodates  himself  to 
the  exaggerated  tone  which  Dickens  is  accustomed  to,  in 
order  to  insinuate  personal  good  advice.  It  is  no  compli- 
ment to  an  author  to  send  him  letters  full  of  nothing  but 
praises  of  his  own  works.  How  wise  Scott  was  in  avoiding 
this  !  God  bless  you,  my  dear  love !  Say  everything  for  me 
to  your  dear  people,  especially  Mr.  Starkey.  This  letter 
may  serve  for  him  as  well  as  you,  for  K.  has  just  come  to 
scold  me  for  writing  so  long  a  one,  so  I  must  say  good-by. 
Ever  faithfully  and  affectionately  yours, 

M.  R.  MiTFORD, 


Convalescence.  385 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Letfers  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Starkey. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Digby  Starkey,  Esq. 

July  29, 1852. 

I  AM  slowly  mending,  clear  Mr.  Starkey,  but  there  is  so 
much  weakness  that  I  see  everybody  almost  as  much  alarmed 
at  this  sort  of  recovery  as  at  the  illness  itself.  Every  one's 
manner  says  what  some  say  in  words,  that  I  am  breaking 
fast.  However,  I  may  revive,  and,  if  not,  His  will  be  done ! 
I  am,  and  have  always  been,  a  most  deceiving  person  as  to 
health  and  strength.  There  is  an  appearance  of  both  about 
me,  great  animal  spirits,  great  excitability,  and  that  is  at 
present  Mr.  May's  dread,  for  I  like  conversation  as  well  as 
ever,  and  it  heats  and  flushes  me — and  then  comes  the  re- 
action, the  sleepless,  restless  fatigue,  and  the  feverish  lan- 
guor. However,  I  am  better,  the  pulse  is  better.  I  have 
the  constant  and  anxious  attention  of  the  most  skilful  med- 
ical man  I  really  believe  alive,  who  is  as  much  my  friend  as 
my  physician,  the  affectionate  care  of  two  very  attached  and 
faithful  servants,  the  daily  visits  of  one  most  charming  fami- 
ly, and  the  calls  and  inquiries  of  more  than  are  good  for  me 
(fourteen  sets  of  people  have  been  here  to-day),  so  that  the 
feeling  of  loneliness  which  often  oppresses  a  poor  old  maid- 
en lady  wholly  without  relations  is  most  mercifully  spared 
me.  Let  me  add  the  kind  letters  of  distant  correspondents, 
of  old  friends  like  Emily,  of  new  friends  like  yourself,  and 
surely  I  have  very  much  for  which  to  be  thankful ! 

I  agree  with  you  in  all  that  you  say  of  Mr.  Hawthorne. 
The  "Great  Stone  Tale"  is  a  grand  piece  of  philosophy, 
and  there  is  (I  think  in  the  "Twice-told  Tales")  a  most 
striking  one,  where  a  series  of  events  are  developed  by 
sounds,  not  words,  by  some  old  hag  in  a  valley  at  night 

17 


386  Longfellow  and  Holmes. 

These  were  the  things  which  inspired  my  dear  friend,  Mr. 
Fields,  with  the  confidence  in  Mr.  Hawthorne  that  produced 
"The  Scarlet  Letter,"  and  changed  his  position  from  most 
miserable  destitution  to  affluence  and  comfort.  Nothing 
can  exceed  the  beauty  of  his  style.  It  reminds  me  of  the 
French  of  that  greatest  of  novelists,  Balzac,  the  same  power 
of  subtle  analysis  and  of  minute  description.  I  don't  now 
believe  that  Balzac  is  known  to  him — very  few  English  do 
relish  him  as  he  deserves.  It  requires  great  familiarity  with 
French  literature  to  do  so.  This  dear  friend  of  mine,  Mr. 
Fields,  is  a  fine  judge  of  style.  He  has  collected,  in  seven 
thickly  printed  volumes,  all  the  writings  of  De  Quincey — 
perhaps  the  greatest  master  of  English  now  alive — and  the 
sale  in  America  of  these  volumes  has  been  above  three 
thousand,  which,  in  six  months,  and  without  the  slightest 
meretricious  attraction,  is  very  creditable  to  the  nation.  Did 
I  say  that  Hawthorne's  letters  are  very  charming,  so  nat- 
ural, so  graceful,  so  unaffectedly  modest  and  unspoilt.  I 
agree  with  you  about  Prescott  and  Irving,  only  Prescott  pro- 
vokes me  by  not  taking  part  enough  with  the  Peruvians,  or 
even  with  the  Mexicans.  I  hate  that  avarice  which  cloaked 
itself  in  fanaticism. 

Longfellow  has  beautiful  bits,  but  his  prose  is  trash,  and  I 
confess  that  I  think  he  owes  his  success  here  quite  as  much 
to  his  faults,  his  obscurity,  his  mysticism,  and  his  little  dash 
of  cant,  as  to  his  merits.  For  my  own  part,  I  greatly  prefer 
the  healthy  and  cheerful  masculine  verse  of  Dr.  Holmes.  In 
consequence  of  my  book,  an  English  edition  is  just  printed. 
Do  read  it,  especially  the  latter  part  of  "  Maria,"  the  intro- 
duction and  commencement  of  "  Astr^a,"  and  the  "  Punch- 
bowl." He  is  a  marvellous  painter  in  words,  and  there  is 
something  about  the  whole  man  wonderfully  large  and  fine. 
I  have  had  from  him  letters  as  interesting  as  ever  crossed 
the  Atlantic.  I  have  now  on  my  bed  (where  I  am  writing) 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  another  American  book;  from  which, 
I  am  told.  Lord  Carlisle  said  that  he  could  not  tear  himself 
until  he  had  completed  it.  I  have  only  just  begun  it,  but 
I  doubt  if  it  will  equally  enthrall  me.  I  have  no  love  for 
negro  stories.     Knowing  many  Americans  and  many  West 


Lord  Chesterfield.  387 

Indians,  I  have  learnt  to  consider  emancipation  as  a  ques- 
tion that  has  two  sides.  My  friend,  Mr.  Webster  (the  great- 
est of  Uving  Americans),  has  lost  his  election  because  he  was 
convinced  that  it  would  cause  an  immediate  division  of  the 
Union,  and,  indeed,  mar  the  whole  prosperity  of  the  repub- 
lic; and  when  a  man  so  wise  resigns  the  hope  of  power,  and 
risks  his  popularity  from  an  honest  conviction,  they  who 
have  no  personal  means  of  judging  would  do  well  to  pause. 
I  have  not  seen  Lady  Theresa's  book.  The  friends  (Lady 
Russell  and  her  children)  who  have  visited  me  every  day 
for  the  last  five  weeks  live  in  the  splendid  mansion  erected 
by  the  second  Lord  Clarendon,  and  in  which  his  greater 
father  composed  his  history.  Has  any  one  ever  written  tlie 
history  of  Lord  Chesterfield's  viceroyalty  of  Ireland?  Sure- 
ly that  wit,  whose  fame,  as  Hayley  says  (the  same  might  be 
said  of  himself),  "once  rose  too  high,  and  now  has  sunk  too 
low,"  was  the  best  governor  Ireland  ever  had.  Only  think, 
if  an  unpopular  governor  had  been  at  the  castle  during  the 
Scotch  rebellion,  what  would  have  become  of  the  House  of 
Brunswick.  Has  that  subject  never  tempted  you?  Adieu, 
dear  Mr.  Starkey.  Say  to  Emily  only  that  I  am  better  than 
when  I  wrote  to  her,  which  is  true.  Your  picture  of  the 
mock  battle  is  very  vivid.  But  our  people  do  not  under- 
stand these  things;  Louis  Napoleon  does.  By  the  way,  I 
have  been  reading  his  three  volumes  (in  French,  observe). 
The  letter  to  his  mother  about  the  Cherbourg  affair  is  most 
interesting;  so  is  the  bit  on  "Exile";  and  the  introduction 
to  the  "History  of  Artillery"  is  really  like  one  of  Southey's 
reviews.  Ever  yours,  M.  R.  Mitford. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson. 

Swallowfield,  Saturday,  Aug.  23,  1852. 
Ah,  dearest  Emily, "  well "  will  never  again  be  my  state. 
It  was  only  last  night  that  Mr.  May  could  admit  anything 
like  real  improvement.  He  and  everybody  regarded  me  as 
breaking  fast — the  faster  for  the  good  spirits,  which  consumed 
the  oil  of  life  so  rapidly.  Yesterday  he  said  there  was  de- 
cided amendment,  but  it  must  always  be — even  if  God  see 
fit  to  prolong  my  days — an  existence  of  the  greatest  care- 


388  Declining  Health. 

taking  and  precaution.  It  is  next  to  impossible  for  me  to 
be  visible  before  two  o'clock,  and  by  eight  I  am  wholly  ex- 
hausted. I  can  hardly  crawl  from  room  to  room,  and  never 
expect  to  walk  the  length  of  my  little  garden  again — am 
lifted  in  and  out  of  a  very  low  pony-carriage,  and  from  step 
to  step  up-stairs  to  bed.  Then,  in  bed,  I  cannot  stir,  and 
have  all  the  length  of  the  spinal  column,  all  round  the  loins, 
and  across  the  shoulders,  a  soreness  which  renders  every 
position  painful.  It  is  just  as  if  I  had  been  soundly  beaten, 
so  that,  after  a  little  interrupted  sleep,  I  am  more  fatigued 
in  the  morning  than  when  I  went  to  bed  at  night.  .  .  . 

Visitor  upon  visitor  till  four  or  five  o'clock,  then  a  quiet 
drive  through  the  lanes,  or  leaving  cards  at  different  doors. 
Sometimes  friends  come  from  London,  or  France,  or  Amer- 
ica, and  then  I  contrive  to  spend  with  them  the  six  or  seven 
hours  that  the  railway  permits ;  but  there  must  be  an  inter- 
val of  a  day  betwixt,  for  the  exhaustion  of  such  visits  is  too 
great  for  two  consecutive  days,  and  I  believe  Mr.  May  would 
be  glad  if  I  never  saw  anybody,  but  that  is  impossible;  and 
I  am  quite  sure  that  nine  out  of  ten  of  my  visitors  think  me 
actually  well,  for  I  get  a  bright  color  as  I  talk,  and  never  in 
my  life  were  my  spirits  so  good.  And  this,  dear  Emily,  is  a 
great  blessing — and  for  many  blessings  have  I  to  be  thank- 
ful :  to  be  watched  and  prescribed  for  by  such  a  man  as  Mr. 
May,  nursed  as  I  am  by  K.  and  Sam  and  the  whole  family 
of  Russell,  and  visited  and  cared  for  by  everybody  around, 
gentle  and  simple,  and  to  know  of  old  friends  like  you,  and 
new  friends  like  j\Ir.  Starkey  at  a  distance.  I  should  be 
most  wicked  if  I  were  not  most  thankful.  How  I  should 
like  to  see  your  garden !  Will  you  give  me  some  of  your 
hollyhock  seed,  and  any  other  seeds  that  you  have  to  spare? 
It  will  be  a  great  favor.  I  love  hollyhocks.  Lady  Russell 
has  in  a  broad  gravel-walk  that  leads  down  her  kitchen  gar- 
den exquisite  clumps  of  hollyhocks,  twenty  or  thirty  stalks 
of  the  same  color  tied  up  together,  of  which  the  effect 
is  wonderfully  rich;  but  they  are  all  from  pink  to  red,  and, 
although  I  shall  have  seeds  from  her,  I  think  they  do  best 
from  a  distance.  Her  garden  is  exquisite — I  mean  the 
kitchen  garden.     From  an  old  cloistered  court  at  the  back 


Daniel  Webster.  389 

of  the  house  you  pass  through  iron  gates  and  a  rich  grove- 
like orchard  to  other  iron  gates,  beautifully  wrought,  and 
surmounted  by  a  super-arch  sculptured  with  fruit  and  flowers 
— almost  covered  with  the  Magnolia  Grandiflora — into  this 
old-fashioned  kitchen  garden  of  six  acres,  adorned  on  each 
side  by  wide  flower-borders,  with  far  within  alternate  holly- 
hocks and  dahlias,  backed  up  by  espaliers,  and  finished  by 
six  or  eight  hot  and  green  houses.  I  should  say  that  the 
path  through  the  orchard  and  to  it  is  bordered  by  alternate 
cypresses  and  tree-roses,  like  an  Eastern  cemetery.  I  love 
that  garden,  to  which  the  dear  girls  roll  me  in  a  chair.  The 
house  is  very  spendid,  and  the  library  one  of  the  richest  I 
have  ever  known. 

I  am  in  pain  about  this  squabble  with  America;  if  it  comes 
to  fighting,  it  would  seem  to  me  like  a  civil  war.  Dear  Mr. 
Fields  says  that  the  Americans  are  much  amused  with  Daniel 
Webster's  fish  ebullition,  on  account  of  his  known  passion 
for  fish  in  every  way,  for  catching,  cooking,  and  eating  it. 
To  have  partaken  of  one  of  Daniel  Webster's  fish  chowders 
at  Marshfield  forms  an  epoch  in  an  American's  life.  I  had 
three  friends  here,  each  of  whom  at  different  times  had  en- 
joyed that  honor.  It  is  a  sort  of  soup,  composed  of  cod  and 
other  materials,  and  the  great  statesman  leaves  whatever 
guests  he  may  have  to  compose  it  with  his  own  hands.  Dear 
Mr.  Fields  says  that,  if  it  comes  to  a  war,  he  will  side  with 
England,  as  becomes  a  man  who  has  eaten,  half  a  score  of 
times,  whitebait  at  Blackwall.  I  must  tell  you  a  conversa- 
tion he  had  with  Carlyle  at  some  great  dinner  (you  know 
what  a  blusterer  Carlyle  is). 

"  So,  sir,  ye're  an  American  ?"  quoth  the  self-sufficient 
Scotchman. 

Mr.  Fields  assented. 

"Ah,  that's  a  wretched  nation  of  3'our  ain.  It's  all  wrong. 
It  always  has  been  wrong  from  the  vera  beginning.  That 
grete  mon  of  yours — George  "  (did  any  one  under  the  sun 
ever  dream  of  calling  Washington  George  before?) — "your 
grete  mon  George  was  a  monstrous  bore,  and  wants  taking 
down  a  few  hundred  pegs." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Carlyle,"  replied  my  friend,  "  you  are   the 


390  Carlyle. 

last  man  in  the  world  from  whom  I  should  have  expected 
such  an  observation.  Look  at  your  own  book  on  Cromwell ! 
What  was  Washington  but  Cromwell  without  his  personal 
ambition  and  without  his  fanaticism?" 

"Eh,  sir,"  responded  Carlyle,  " George  had  neither  ambi- 
tion nor  religion,  nor  any  good  quality  under  the  sun — George 
was  just  Oliver  with  all  the  juice  squeezed  out!" 

I  wish  you  had  heard  Mr.  Fields  tell  this  story.  I  have 
known  many  brilliant  talkers,  but  never  any  one  that  ap- 
proached him.  It  is  the  triumph  of  meekness  and  animal 
spirits  without  noise  or  abruptness — full  of  enjoyment,  and 
perfectly  unconscious.  His  conversation  is  for  your  pleasure 
and  his  own,  without  an  idea  of  display.  Another  thing  in 
Carlyle  displeased  him  far  more;  every  one  knows  that  Em- 
erson makes  him  a  perfect  idol,  and  it  was  thought  that,  if 
Carlyle  cared  for  any  one  in  the  world,  it  was  for  Emerson. 
I  have  heard  it  said  of  them  they  are  not  only  like  brothers, 
but  like  twin-brothers.  Well,  remember  that  Emerson  and 
Hawthorne  both  live  at  Concord,  and  you  will  appreciate 
the  kindness  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  speech. 

"Isna  there  a  place  called  Concord  near  ye?  What  like 
is  it?" 

"A  pretty  little  New  England  town,"  was  Mr.  Fields's  an- 
swer, "of  no  political  importance,  but  lively  and  pleasant  as 
a  residence." 

"Pretty! — lively! — ye  ken  I  had  fancied  it  to  be  a  dull, 
dreary  place,  wi'  a  drowsy  river  making  believe  to  creep 
through  it,  slow  and  muddy  and  stagnant,  like  the  folk  that 
inhabit  it." 

So  much  for  Mr.  Carlyle,  who  has  had  the  double  misfort- 
une of  writing  according  to  the  humor — that  is,  the  ill-humor, 
of  the  moment,  without  the  slightest  regard  to  consistency 
and  truth,  and  to  be  surrounded  by  none  but  admirers,  or  lis- 
teners borne  down  by  mere  noise.  In  England  his  fashion 
is  waning  rapidly,  and  I  have  no  doubt  but  that,  like  most 
overrated  men,  he  will  live  to  share  the  common  fate  of 
idols  knocked  down  by  his  former  worshippers  in  revenge 
of  their  own  idolatr)^ 

Mr.  Fields  is  coming  back  in  the  spring,  thank  God !  and 


Ft'te  to  Mr.  Layard.  39 1 

means  to  bring  Mr.  Hawthorne  with  him.  He  wants  him 
to  write  a  romance  on  Seflon  Court,  with  which  he  has  been 
more  struck  than  any  other  thing  he  has  seen  in  England. 
He  also  hopes  to  bring  Dr.  Holmes,  my  pet  of  pets.  I  tran- 
scribed in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Hawthorne  what  dear  Mr.  Starkey 
said  of  his  works.  Mr.  Holmes  (to  whom  I  read  it)  says  that 
it  is  the  finest  criticism  that  has  been  made  on  his  style. 

Did  you  happen  to  see  an  account  of  a  fete  offered  by 
Dr.  Lee  to  Mr.  Layard  (the  Nineveh  discoverer)  and  Mr. 
Bethell?*  I  know  neither  of  them,  but  they  joined  Mrs. 
Acton  Tindal  in  a  pressing  invitation  that  I  should  be  pres- 
ent— she  not  knowing  of  my  illness.  Of  course  I  could  not 
go,  and  Mr.  Layard  was,  she  says,  very  much  vexed ;  but 
that  was  nothing.  Old  Dr.  Lee,  who  seems,  from  riches  and 
kindness,  and  his  grand  Elizabethan  place,  to  be  a  privileged 
person,  got  hold  of  an  old  Quakeress,  a  sort  of  combination 
of  Mary  WoUstonecraft  and  Harriet  Martineau,  who  made  an 
harangue  from  a  wagon  on  the  rights,  or  rather  wrongs,  of 
women.  The  doctor  wanted  to  put  Mrs.  Acton  Tindal  on 
the  wagon  also  (a  very  sweet  person,  but  rather  a  fine 
lady),  and  she  and  Mr.  Layard  had  nearly  run  away  before 
the  banquet.  Mr.  Bethell  stood  it  with  the  sang-froid  of  a 
Chancery  barrister.  I  should  certainly  have  joined  the  run- 
away party.  God  bless  you,  my  dear  love  1  Remember  me 
to  all  old  friends,  Elizabeth  and  the  baby  included. 

Ever  yours,  M.  R.  M. 

On  envelope — 

Say  everything  for  me  to  the  dear  Crowthers.  How  they 
recover !  But  then  they  are  quiet,  and  they  have  each  other 
to  care  for — a  great  inducement  to  getting  well.  How  few 
people  remain  like  them,  married  lovers  to  the  end  of  their 
days ! 

Miss  Jephson  to  Digby  Starkey,  Esq. 

Sept.  23,  1852. 
My  DEAR  Mr.  Starkey, — So  atlast  our  great  duke  is  dead! 
How  ridiculous  it  is  in  the  French  papers  (the  Patrie  and 

*  Afterwards  Lord  Wcstbury. 


392  TJie  Duke  of  Wellington. 

the  Presse)  to  say  that  he  does  not  deserve  lasting  fame,  be- 
cause, as  they  pretend,  he  refused  to  draw  his  sword  for  lib- 
erty^ which  in  his  despite  has  triumphed  everywhere — as  if 
France  was  free!  Does  not  this  remind  j'ou  of ^sop's fable 
of  the  "Mastiff  and  the  Wolf"?  and  might  not  England,  in 
reply  to  their  boasting,  point  to  their  silenced  press  and  the 
suppression  of  the  Assembly,  as  the  wolf  did  to  the  marks 
of  the  collar  to  which  the  chain  was  attached  round  the  neck 
of  the  mastiff? 

I  read  the  other  day,  in  a  number  of  Blackwood  which 
was  lent  to  me,  a  story  of  Louis  Napoleon  which  seems  not 
improbable.  It  is  stated  that  when  he  was  in  England  some 
years  ago,  speaking  of  the  amulet  taken  from  the  tomb  of 
Charlemagne,  which  he  then  wore,  he  said  that  his  wearing 
it  might  appear  presumptuous,  but  that  he  had  an  internal 
conviction  that  he  should  one  day  be  ruler  of  France;  and 
in  that  case,  though  he  had  many  friends  in  England  whom 
he  valued,  it  would  be  his  object  to  accomplish  what  his 
uncle  the  emperor  had  planned,  and  that  the  conquest  of 
England  was  his  mission.  Certainly  the  Nation  gives  him 
every  encouragement  which  the  promise  of  co-operation  in 
Ireland  can  aiford  to  fulfil  it.  .  .  . 

I  hope  that  Isabella  is  now  quite  well  again,  and  that 
Emily  continues  to  improve  in  health.  You  will,  of  course, 
see  the  illustrated  edition  of  Miss  Mitford's  "Recollections." 
It  must  have-been  pleasant  to  her  to  have  her  taste  for  flowers 
so  consulted  and  gratified  by  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  I 
am  afraid  she  loves  les  lis  too  well,  though  I  hope  and  be- 
lieve not  so  well  as  les  roses. 

Ever,  my  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  your  affectionate  sister, 

Emily  E.  Jephson. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Digby  Starkey,  Esq. 

Sept.  24,  1852. 
Dear  Mr.  Starkey, — No!  I  have  not  read  those  works 
of  Guizot.  To  tell  the  truth,  it  may  be  very  meritorious,  or  at 
least  very  creditable,  to  read  those  philosophical  historians, 
but  it  is  very  fatiguing;  and  there  are  certain  cold,  slow, dull 
writers,  of  whom  Guizot  and  De  Tocqueville  may  pass  for 


Guizot.  393 

the  types,  over  whom  I  cannot  help  yawning  for  the  life  of  me. 
Moreover,  I  consider  Guizot  himself  as  a  solemn  coxcomb 
with  a  good  deal  of  the  hypocrite  about  him.  He  is  never 
weary  of  a  certain  self-laudatory  sort  of  preaching,  and  yet 
was  there  ever  a  more  unscrupulous  minister — a  man  more 
ready  to  help  his  master  through  the  dirtiest  work?  He 
does  not  seem  to  know  good  from  evil,  for  a  friend  of  mine, 
who  is  also  a  friend  of  his,  asked  me  in  '48  if  another  friend 
of  mine,  who  buys  first-rate  pictures,  was  likely  to  purchase 
one  which  M.  Guizot  had  brought  with  him  from  Paris. 
"  You  may  think  that  it  is  genuine,"  said  she,  "for  I  am  de- 
sired by  M.  Guizot  to  say  that  it  was  presented  to  him  by 
Queen  Christina  as  a  testimony  of  her  gratitude  for  the  part 
he  took  in  the  Spanish  marriages."  The  Spanish  marriages! 
So  that,  instead  of  being  ashamed  of  having  that  put  upon 
record,  he  actually  used  it  to  enhance  the  value  of  his  share 
of  the  spoil.  Moreover,  I  have  not  read  the  French  criticism 
on  Shakespeare.  If  you  have  read  Alfred  de  Vigny's  "Chat- 
terton  "  (I  mean  the  drama,  not  the  story),  j'ou  will  see  what 
those  French  people  (he  has  translated  "  Othello,"  and  is 
married  to  an  Englishwoman)  know  of  English  manners. 
You  will  find  a  young  lord  setting  out  from  Holborn  with  his 
hounds  (you  are  to  hear  them  behind  the  scenes)  on  a  fox- 
chase,  and  promising  Kitty  to  bring  eight  or  ten  foxes'  skins, 
when  he  returns  from  killing  them,  to  make  her  a  muff  and 
tippet  I  And  I  believe  that,  little  as  he  knows  the  English 
tongue,  Lamartine  (also  married  to  an  Englishwoman)  knows 
less.  The  romantic  drama  is  too  wide  a  subject  for  to-night. 
One  is  provoked  over  Victor  Hugo,  who  might  have  been  so 
great  a  poet — and  who  is  so  great  a  poet,  in  those  volumes 
of  "  Lyrics,"  which  are  little  known  in  England,  but  in  which 
the  best  French  critics  hold  that  he  will  chiefly  live,  and,  in 
my  poor  mind,  quite  rightly.  Still,  one  is  provoked  with  him, 
who  might  have  been  a  very  great  dramatist,  but  for  running 
into  excesses  which  so  diminish  the  power,  even  when  they 
seem  to  heighten  it.  Still,  "Le  Roi  S'Amuse"  is  a  very 
great  play. 

With  all  his  faults,  Victor  Hugo  is  incomparably  the  best 
and  greatest  of  the  romantic  dramatists.    The  only  one  that 

17* 


394  D^  Quincey. 

can  compete  with  him  is  a  person  as  different  as  possible, 
George  Sand,  whose  "  Claudie,"  a  pastoral  prose  drama  with 
a  good  deal  of  patois  intermixed,  is  remarkable  for  the  truth 
of  the  touch.  It  is  free,  too,  from  all  that  vile  design  of  doing 
good,  or  making  out  this  to  be  wrong  and  that  to  be  right, 
which  I  hold  with  you,  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  to  be  the  most  fatal 
fault  of  all  fiction  nowadays.  I  am  so  glad  to  be  fortified  by 
your  opinion,  for  I  have  waged  twenty  battles  on  the  subject 
this  winter  and  spring.  It  was  the  one  fault  of  Miss  Edgeworth 
that  she  wrote  to  a  text.  How  much  better  she  wrote  with- 
out one  she  showed  in  "  Belinda."  All  the  greatest  writers 
of  fiction  are  pure  of  that  sin — Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Scott, 
Jane  Austen  ;  and  are  not  these  precisely  the  writers  who 
do  most  good  as  well  as  give  most  pleasure?  Ah,  I  must 
give  off.  Tell  dear  Emily  Jephson  that  I  had  somewhere 
or  other  half  a  letter  written  to  her,  that  I  love  her  always, 
that  I  am  getting  better,  that  I  do  not  believe  myself  in 
danger,  and  that  I  will  write  to  her  when  I  can  do  so  with- 
out making  my  head  throb  or  my  hands  burn.  God  bless 
you,  dear  friend !  Ever  yours, 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson. 

Oct.  25, 1852. 
Did  I  tell  you  that  my  beloved  friend  Mr.  Fields,  the 
American  publisher,  had  collected  seven  volumes  of  Mr. 
De  Quincey's  books  dispersed  over  different  magazines,  and 
published  them  at  Boston,  and  that,  the  last  thing  before 
sailing,  he  took  down  to  him  the  author's  profits  on  a  sale 
of  three  thousand  copies?  Now  this  was  the  more  noble 
and  generous  because  to  three  letters  from  Boston  convey- 
ing this  offer  Mr.  De  Quincey  had  sent  no  answer  whatever, 
and,  even  when  this  admirable  edition  was  published.  Miss 
De  Quincey  only  wrote;  however,  on  his  arrival,  they  were 
mutually  charmed.  J\Ir.  Fields  said  that  Mr.  De  Quincey 
was  the  most  courtly  gentleman  he  had  seen  in  Europe; 
this  he  wrote  to  me,  adding  that  he  spoke  of  me  with  great 
enthusiasm,  and  proposed  to  write  to  me ;  but  no  letter  came, 
however,  and  so  I  wrote  to  him.     Yesterday  I  received  a 


An  Oratorio.  395 

very  charming  letter  from  Miss  De  Quincey,  saying  that  her 
father  had  not  for  many  years  been  so  gratified  as  by  my 
letter;  that  he  had  begun  an  answer,  which  was  already  as 
long  as  a  good -sized  pamphlet,  but  that  she,  knowing  him 
of  old,  thought  it  likely  that  some  time  might  elapse  before 
it  was  sealed  and  delivered,  and  therefore  sent  hers  as  a 
precursor.*  I  think  his  prose  the  finest  of  any  living  writer, 
and  I  find  that  most  judges  of  style  are  of  my  opinion. 

Mrs.  Browning  has  had  a  recurrence  of  cough,  which  pre- 
vented her  from  attending  the  christening  of  Alfred  Tenny- 
son's boy.  It  is  called  Hallam  Tennyson,  and  Mr.  Hallam 
stood  in  person,  which  is  right  on  both  sides.  You  know, 
of  course,  that  the  lamented  of  the  "  In  Memoriam  "  was  the 
historian's  son  Arthur,  that  he  was  engaged  to  Miss  Tenny- 
son, and  that  after  his  death,  and  even  after  her  marriage 
to  another  man,  Mr.  Hallam  made  her  a  large  allowance. 
Arthur  Hallam,  though,  would  have  been  a  prettier  name. 
Mrs.  Southey,  also  a  sufferer  from  chest  complaint,  is  shut 
up  till  June.  I  forgot  to  say  that  the  Brownings  have  left 
London  for  Paris,  where  they  will  stay  a  week  or  two,  and 
then  proceed  to  Florence,  Rome,  and  Naples.  No  doubt 
they  will  see  the  grand  entry  of  the  prince  president  into 
Paris. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  I  have  been  deeply  interested  lately 
by  the  production  of  an  oratorio  called  "Jerusalem  "  at  Nor- 
wich. The  composer  is  the  brother  of  my  beloved  friend 
Hugh  Pearson,  Vicar  of  Sonning.  It  was  a  perfect  triumph 
in  the  hall,  and  amongst  the  performers,  but  has  not  been 
done  justice  to  by  the  press,  because  the  author  was  a  gen- 
tleman !  Henry  Chorley,  who  gives  the  tone  to  the  musical 
critics,  had  the  audacity  to  tell  me  so.  I  doubt  if  I  shall 
ever  forgive  him.  He,  the  composer,  left  the  Bar,  for  which 
he  was  educated,  because  his  passion  for  music  overmaster- 
ed him,  and  has  now  given  himself  to  it  heart  and  soul.  An 
enormous  audience  in  the  most  musical  city  in  England  was 
chained  in  breathless  attention  for  five  hours,  often  melted 
into  tears  by  the  pathos  of  the  music,  and  carried  away  by 

*  Printed  on  page  307. 


396  Hood  Memorial. 

its  grandeur — and,  because  he  was  well-born  and  highly  ed- 
ucated, common  justice  is  denied  to  him. 

Truly,  of  all  the  fine  things  that  Louis  Napoleon  is  doing 
for  France,  none,  to  my  mind,  is  so  valuable  as  the  putting 
down  of  journalism !  !  !  That  vile  engine,  the  press,  is  to 
genius  of  modern  times  what  the  rack  was  of  old.  I  abhor 
it,  not  on  my  own  account — for  to  me  it  is  civil  enough — 
but  on  the  score  of  my  betters. 

God  bless  you  both,  dear  friends !  I  shall  write  on  the 
other  side  a  MS.  charade  (not  to  be  printed  or  copied, 
mind)  by  Catharine  Fanshawe,  which  I  have  sent  to  Mr. 
Dillon.       Ever  most  faithfully  and  affectionately  yours, 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 

P.S. — Mrs.  Browning  is  in  a  very  bad  way  about  being 
admitted  to  Florence.  She  doubts  their  letting  her  in ;  I 
am  more  afraid  about  their  letting  her  out,  on  account  of 
her  book.  I  am  expecting,  on  Tuesday,  Bayard  Taylor,  the 
great  American  traveller  and  a  very  charming  poet.  Those 
are  his  letters  which  are  copied  from  the  New  York  Tribune 
into  Bentkys  Miscella?iy.  He  is  only  five  days  in  England, 
and  gives  me  one.  On  the  27th  he  embarks  for  India, 
China,  Japan,  and  so  homeward  by  the  Pacific.  He  is  still 
quite  a  young  man — under  twenty-eight — and  a  great  friend 
of  dear  Mr.  Fields.  To-day  I  have  a  letter  from  the  Whit- 
tington  Club,  begging  my  name  to  a  subscription  for  a  mon- 
ument to  Thomas  Hood.  His  poems  are  his  best  monument ; 
so  it  is  rather  to  the  credit  of  England  than  for  his  sake  that 
one  subscribes.  Poor  as  I  am,  I  could  not  refuse  myself  the 
luxury  of  giving  ten  shillings,  and  I  am  sure  that,  if  every- 
body has  the  courage  to  give  small  sums,  they  will  raise  the 
;^i5o  that  they  want.  They  have  nearly  the  sum  already. 
The  movement  will  be  made  public  in  a  few  days.  They 
wanted  influential  names  first.  This  is  a  pamphlet,  dear 
friend,  a  la  De  Quincey.  But  I  have  so  many  letters  to 
write  and  people  to  see  that  I  don't  know  when  I  may  write 
again.     Let  me  know  how  you  are,  dear  Emily. 


Charade.  y^'j 

Miss  Fanshawe's  Charade. 

Come,  take  a  chair, 
And  set  it  there, 

Farther  from  the  door. 
Pray,  pray. 
Don't  say  nay, 

Eat  a  little  more. 
My  first  is  said, 
My  second's  red, 

My  whole  I'm  sure  you  know. 
It's  cousin  Pat, 
And  brother  Mat, 

Aunt  Jane  and  uncle  Joe. 


398  Charles  Lever. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Letter    from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Star- 
key. — Poetry. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Digby  Starkey,  Esq. 

Oct.  25,  1852. 

A  LETTER  from  me  to  dear  Emily  Jephson,  dearest  Mr. 
Starkey  (or  rather  to*  Emily  and  company)  will  reach  you 
before  long — a  letter  which  is  almost  a  book. 

Do  you  know  an  Irishman,  whose  early  books  I  used  to 
read  to  my  dear  father,  to  our  mutual  delight — Mr.  Lever? 
I  have  lived  so  much  among  sportsmen  that  I  enjoy  many 
books  which  women  in  general  find  caviare.  Then  I  am 
told  that  the  man  is  a  constant  spring  of  humor  and  good- 
humor.  Hablot  Browne,  the  artist,  to  whom  both  Dickens 
and  he  owe  so  much,  told  me  once  that  he  spent  three 
weeks  with  him  in  a  most  retired  place  in  Belgium,  and  that 
his  powers  of  amusement  never  flagged — a  great  contrast  to 
Mr.  Dickens  himself,  who  is,  I  believe,  not  amusing  at  all. 
I  have  never  seen  either;  but  Mr.  Lever  and  I  interchanged 
tender  messages,  being  each  of  us  surprised  and  pleased  to 
find  that  the  other  relished  our  books.  All  the  illness  in 
the  world  never  alters  my  good  spirits.  .  .  . 

Always  most  affectionately  yours, 

M.  R,  Mitford. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson. 

Nov.  6, 1852. 
Encouragement  and  praise  are  certainly,  dearest  Emily, 
the  most  unmerciful  taskmasters  of  this  world,  and  they 
have  done  their  office  with  me,  or,  rather,  are  doing  it,  so 
that,  tired  out  with  an  attempt  at  walking,  I  sit  down  to 
write  to  you  by  way  of  refreshment  instead  of  going  to  bed. 
You  will  not  wonder  if  the  letter  betray  some  signs  of  the 


Bayard  Taylor.  399 

weariness  of  the  limbs.  Before  I  forget  it,  Kindred  is  the 
word — kind-red.  How,  having  once  hit  upon  the  solution, 
could  you  doubt?  It  seems  to  me  as  a  charade  the  very 
best  that  I  ever  encountered.  Praed's,  excepting  for  their 
matchless  grace,  are  generally  bad — alwaj's  excepting  "  Don- 
key," which  was  written  to  illustrate  a  beautiful  engraving 
from  a  Spanish  picture:  a  young  lady,  sitting  on  one  of 
those  creatures,  which  in  Spain  lose  their  vulgarity,  her  veil 
floating  around  her,  and  her  bridle-rein  held  by  a  gallant 
cavalier. 

This  mention  of  Spain  reminds  me  of  Bayard  Taylor,  who 
sailed  for  Gibraltar  last  week,  intending  to  travel  all  over 
Spain,  and  then  to  proceed  to  India,  China,  and  Japan,  and 
so  home  by  the  Pacific.  He  spent  Tuesday  here,  and  I  find 
that  I  was  mistaken  in  thinking  him  a  working-man,  (Stod- 
dard is  so,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  his  friend.  Bayard  Taylor,  spoke  of  him).  He  is  a 
person  of  no  common  learning,  an  excellent  classical  schol- 
ar, and  speaking  French,  German,  Italian,  Spanish,  and 
Arabic  as  well  as  his  native  tongue.  He  has  visited  spots 
in  Central  Africa  that  no  European  foot  has  trodden.  Last 
winter  he  had  little  other  society  than  that  of  a  lioness,  a 
panther,  and  two  hyenas.  The  hyenas  were  to  the  last  un- 
tamable, that  is,  treacherous  and  uncertain,  but  the  lioness 
was,  he  says,  as  much  attached  to  him  as  a  Newfoundland 
dog,  and  so  was  he  to  her.  He  was  long  in  Syria,  and 
speaks  of  the  Jews  of  Jerusalem  as  being  still  a  most  noble 
and  beautiful  race;  so  like  the  paintings  of  the  great  Italian 
masters  that  it  seems  as  if  they  had  sat  to  them  yesterday. 
A  very  clever  person,  and  a  very  remarkable  one,  is  Bayard 
Taylor,  and,  I  doubt  not,  as  good  as  he  is  clever — but  yet  I 
did  not  fancy  him.  Mr.  Fields  has  spoilt  me.  He  is  shy 
and  gawky,  long  rather  than  tall  (you  know  what  I  mean), 
and  with  a  total  absence  of  that  strange,  delightful  thing  call- 
ed charm — which  is  to  conversation  what  scent  is  to  the  rose. 

Talking  of  Jews,  my  beloved  friend,  Miss  Goldsmid,  has 
just  sent  me  a  volume  of  sermons  by  Mr.  Marks,  the  minis- 
ter of  a  synagogue  established  about  ten  years  since,  which 
give  a  very  interesting  specimen  of  the  reformed  Jewish 


400  Mifs  Goldsmid. 

worship.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  it?  Except  that  there  were 
no  practical  abuses  to  sweep  away,  it  is  exceedingly  like  our 
Reformation,  casting  aside  all  lesser  authorities,  as  Luther 
cast  aside  tradition,  and  abiding  by  the  Old  Testament 
wholly.  It  is  still  a  religion  of  rites  and  symbols,  but  much 
less  so  than  the  unreformed  worship.  I  wish  you  knew 
Miss  Goldsmid.  She  is  by  far  the  greatest  woman  that  I 
have  ever  known.  Even  her  appearance  is  a  complete  tri- 
umph of  mind  over  body,  for  she  would  be  absolutely  plain 
in  face  if  it  were  not  for  the  fine  intellectual  expression  and 
the  sweetness  of  the  eyes ;  and  clumsy  in  figure  but  for  the 
noble  and  dignified  carriage,  which  would  beseem  a  queen. 
Possibly  this  may  proceed,  however,  from  a  certain  habit  of 
power.  The  riches  of  her  father  are  past  all  count.  He 
once  told  a  friend  of  mine  that  he  had  seven  large  estates 
in  England  which  he  had  never  seen,  and  she  herself  has 
from  an  uncle  four  thousand  a  year,  which  is,  of  course, 
pocket-money  in  her  father's  house,  and  used,  I  have  no 
doubt,  for  the  noblest  purposes.  I  wish  I  could  show  you 
her  only  literary  effort  —  a  translation  of  other  Jewish  ser- 
mons from  the  German  of  Dr.  Solomons  —  worthy  to  be 
Christian  discourses  in  their  spirit  of  charity  and  brotherly 
love;  and  so  finely  rendered  that  William  Harness,  after 
reading  one  to  me,  said  that  he  could  not  detect  one  symp- 
tom of  translation,  and  that  he  only  wished  she  would  under- 
take (being  a  most  perfect  Hebrew  scholar)  that  which  is  so 
much  needed — a  good  Jewish  version  of  the  Old  Testament. 
I  am  afraid  that  her  father,  who  in  liveliness  and  energy 
much  resembled  his  friend,  Lord  Brougham,  is  breaking  fast. 
The  poem  that  I  enclose  is  from  one  of  my  chief  spoilers, 
Mr.  Bennoch,  a  most  brilliant  person,  and  one  who  illus- 
trates the  character  of  this  age.  He  is  the  head  of  a  great 
Manchester  house,  a  man  with  a  very  large  fortune,  with  a 
sweet  wife,  and  no  children.  He  is  a  leading  man  in  the 
Common  Council,  intending,  I  suppose,  one  day  or  other  to 
represent  the  city,  being,  I  am  told,  a  very  fine  speaker. 
But  his  residence  is  at  Blackheath,  where  he  exercises  an 
almost  boundless  hospitality,  and  does  more  good  than  any- 
body I  know.     His  conversation  is  most  brilliant.     He  has 


Francis  Bennoch.  401 

travelled  over  the  geater  part  of  Europe  and  America,  and  I 
need  hardly  tell  you  that,  as  a  poet,  he  is. equalled  by  very 
few.  To  me  the  delicious  rhythm  of  those  verses,  their 
truth,  and  their  healthiness  is  delightful;  more  delightful 
still  is  the  transparent  clearness  of  those  lovely  stanzas, 
most  delightful  of  all  the  rare  fact  that  he  thinks  nothing  of 
his  own  great  talent,  but  is  often  throwing  off  his  whole 
heart  into  sympathy  for  others.  He  comes  here,  I  think,  at 
least  once  a  month — often  more  frequently.  Did  I  tell  you 
that  Marianne  Skerritt  told  me  that  the  most  remarkable 
book  at  Windsor  was  a  Gramont,  richly  and  extensively 
illustrated  by  George  IV.,  certainly  the  only  English  king 
since  the  Stuarts  who  had  any  taste. 

Heaven  bless  you,  dear  love.     This  is  really  a  volume. 
Ever  yours,  M.  R.  Mitford. 

Mr.  Bennoch  published  a  volume  of  poems,  and  the  lines 
enclosed  to  Miss  Mitford  seem  to  have  been  the  following, 
which  have  been  found  among  her  papers : 

Blackheath  Park,  Sept 
Small  Things. 

I  dare  not  scan  the  precious  things, 

The  humblest  weed  that  grows, 
While  pleasure  spreads  its  joyous  wings 

On  every  breeze  that  blows. 
The  simplest  flower  that  hidden  blooms, 

The  lowest  on  the  ground. 
Is  lavish  of  its  rare  perfumes, 

And  scatters  sweetness  round. 

The  poorest  friend  still  bears  his  part 

In  life's  harmonious  plan, 
The  weakest  hand  may  have  the  art 

To  serve  the  stalwart  man. 
The  bird  that  clearest,  highest  sings 

To  greet  the  morning's  birth, 
Falls  down  to  drink  with  folded  wing 

Love's  rapture  on  the  earth. 

From  germs  too  small  for  mortal  sight 

Grow  all  things  that  are  seen, 
Their  floating  particles  of  light 

Weave  Nature's  robe  of  green. 


402  Louis  Napoleon. 

The  motes.that  crowd  the  sun's  warm  rays 

Build  sky,  and  earth,  and  sea, 
The  glorious  orbs  that  round  us  blaze 

Are  motes  to  deity. 

Small  duties  grow  to  mighty  deeds, 

Small  words  to  thoughts  of  power, 
Great  forests  spring  from  tiny  seeds, 

As  moments  make  the  hour. 
And  life,  with  all  its  ebbs  and  flows, 

Howe'er  its  course  be  driven. 
Like  odor  from  the  breathing  rose 

Floats  evermore  to  heaven. 

Francis  Bennoch. 

When  in  England  Mr.  Fields  stayed  with  Mr.  Bennoch, 
and  introduced  him  to  Miss  Mitford.  He  was  already 
known  to  her  through  his  poetry,  and  visited  her  for  several 
years  up  to  her  decease.  She  assigned  to  him  the  arrange- 
ment of  her  dramatic  volume. 

Miss  Jephson  to  Digby  Starkey,  Esq. 

Nov.  15,  1852. 

My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — I  have  part  of  an  old  letter  of 
Miss  Mitford's  to  send  you.  She  wrote  it  when  she  hoped 
that  Mr.  Bentley  would  let  her  have  engravings  from  Mr. 
Lucas's  last  portrait  of  her,  one  of  which  she  intended  to 
give  me.  The  letter  was  laid  aside  en  attendant  the  engrav- 
ing, and  forgotten  for  some  time.  Speaking  of  her  favorite 
little  boy,  she  says  : 

"  By  a  strange  coincidence  this  fair,  golden-haired  Saxon 
boy,  with  his  blue  eyes  like  two  stars,  the  darkest,  brightest 
blue  eyes,  and  his  complexion  of  lilies  and  roses,  is  in  the 
whole  contour  of  his  head  and  face  exactly  the  image  of 
Louis  Napoleon.  The  nose  at  present  differs,  of  course,  and 
the  moustache,  but  the  whole  head  and  brow,  the  shape  of  the 
face,  the  moulding  of  the  mouth  and  chin  so  unlike  a  child, 
are  (in  a  fine  bust  of  the  prince  president,  brought  to  me  by 
Mr.  Fields)  an  actual  fac-simile  of  this  boy's  countenance — • 
of  course  the  child's  head  is  most  remarkable.  Mr.  Fields 
brought  me  also  a  companion  bust — the  other  great  man  of 
France,  Beranger,  most  genial  and  venerable  and  beautiful 


Louis  Napoleon.  403 

— and  the  two  memoirs  of  Louis  Napoleon.  Mr.  Fields, 
who  saw  much  of  him,  and  was  close  to  him  for  two  hours 
at  a  ball  at  the  Tuileries,  is  quite  as  enthusiastic  about  him 
as  Mrs.  Browning  and  I.  So  is  dear  old  Lady  Stanley, 
who  was  here  yesterday.  Mr.  Fields  says  that  he  never  saw 
such  manners  in  his  life,  such  dignity,  such  courtesy,  such 
simplicity,  such  grace.  Very  handsome  he  calls  him,  much 
handsomer  than  those  beautiful  prints  and  that  exquisite 
bust.  He  says  it  is  a  head  so  pale  and  earnest,  so  full  of 
thought  and  feeling,  that  he  should  have  stopped  to  watch  it 
anywhere.  The  figure  is  eminently  dignified  and  graceful, 
slight  and  easy.  He  is  the  best  horseman  in  Paris,  and  has 
the  finest  foot  and  hand  ;  moreover,  he  never  forgets  a  bene- 
fit, and  is  just  as  simple  and  unaffected  as  he  was  twenty 
years  ago — not  changed  at  all,  so  say  all  who  knew  him 
then.  I  heard  a  charming  anecdote  of  him  the  other  day 
from  a  Bath  lady,  Professor  Solly's  sister.  A  friend  of  hers, 
a  lady  of  rank,  was  placed  next  him  at  some  great  fete.  He 
was  most  courteous,  but  reserved  and  silent,  and  she  wanted 
to  hear  him  talk.  At-  last  she  remembered  having  been  in 
Switzerland  some  years  back,  and  having  received  kindness 
and  attention  from  Queen  Hortense.  She  mentioned  this 
to  him  with  admiration  and  gratitude.  He  turned  to  her 
at  once,  *  Ah,  madame,  vous  avez  connue  ma  mere !'  She 
stayed  some  months  at  Paris,  loaded  by  Louis  Napoleon 
with  the  many  attentions  and  distinctions  which  his  position 
permitted  him  to  show  her,  and,  whenever  she  attempted  to 
thank  him  for  his  kindness,  he  stopped  her  at  once  by  ex- 
claiming, '  Ah,  madame,  vous  avez  connue  ma  mere !' 

"  I  hope  to  send  you  with  this  an  engraving  of  Mr. 
Lucas's  exquisite  picture,  which  I  have  given  to  Mr.  Fields. 
Mr.  Bentley  wanted  to  purchase  it  of  Mr.  Lucas,  who  would 
not  sell  it,  but  presented  it  to  me ;  and  I  gave  it  at  once  to 
the  person  in  the  world  who  is  likely  to  value  it  most,  from  dis- 
tance and  from  affection ;  for  really  he  treats  me  as  the  prince 
president  would  have  treated  his  mother,  if  she  had  lived  to 
be  old.  He  is  not,  however,  to  carry  it  to  America  until  Mr. 
Lucas  shall  have  accomplished  his  design  of  painting  a  whole- 
length  of  me  in  his  studio,  because,  in  case  of  my  dying  be- 


404  American  Authors. 

fore  that  plan  be  executed,  he  could  still  make  a  full-length 
from  that  portrait.  At  present  it  is  in  the  hands  of  the  en- 
graver, who  is  retouching  the  plate,  so  that  (unless  Mr.  Bent- 
ley  repent  his  promise)  I  hope  to  have  for  my  friends  a  bet- 
ter engraving  than  that  in  the  magazine.  Did  I  tell  you 
what  an  avalanche  of  kindness  has  come  to  me  from  Ameri- 
ca? President  Sparks  and  his  lady  want  me  to  go  there  for 
two  or  three  years,  and  live  with  them  in  their  house  and 
mine;  and  Longfellow,  Hawthorne,  Holmes  —  all  the  emi- 
nent persons  have  written  to  me,  actually  to  me ;  some  let- 
ters for  me  addressed  to  Mr.  Fields  are  quite  delightful  from 
the  warm-heartedness  and  the  respect." 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson. 

Swallowfield,  Dec.  17,  1852. 

I  have  just  received,  dearest  Emily,  a  very  beautiful  book 
from  America — from  New  York  this  time,  not  from  Boston 
— "  The  Homes  of  American  Authors."  The  first  thing 
that  strikes  one  is  the  cosy  and  comfortable  manner  in  which 
our  brethren  over  the  water  are  housed.  Nothing  can  be 
prettier  than  most  of  the  houses,  and  the  frontispiece,  the  in- 
terior of  Mr.  Everett's  librar)',  would  be  superb  in  the  coun- 
try seat  of  an  English  nobleman.  I  never  can  understand 
how  these  people  come  by  their  money.  Edward  Everett, 
for  instance,  the  person  in  question,  has  really  gone  the  vole 
in  point  of  employment.  One  of  his  avocations  was  the 
having  been  for  four  or  five  years  a  preacher  at  one  of  their 
churches,  and,  although  he  has  been  subsequently  minister 
from  the  United  States  in  England,  yet  their  highest  embas- 
sies are  so  poorly  paid  by  the  republic  that  I  have  always 
heard  that  their  diplomatists  lost  money  by  their  functions. 
I  suppose  it  is  all  right,  but  one  cannot  look  at  that  lordly 
apartment,  with  its  splendid  bookcases,  pictures,  and  busts, 
without  wondering  how  such  wealth  came  to  the  poor 
student. 

There  is  no  end  to  the  contrasts  in  America.  Bayard 
Taylor  was  telling  me  the  story  of  a  young  poet  of  the  name 
of  Stoddard,  still  under  thirty.  His  father  was  the  captain 
of  a  small  merchantman,  which,  with  all  the  crew,  himself 


Stoddard.  405 

included,  was  lost  in  the  North  Sea,  leaving  the  only  child 
so  young,  and  the  widow  so  poor,  that  (a  most  singular  in- 
stance in  the  States)  he  had  no  more  time  for  schooling 
than  served  him  to  learn  to  read,  and  taught  himself  to 
write  some  years  after.  He  supported  his  mother  by  mak- 
ing moulds  for  iron  castings;  so  he  continued  for  a  long 
while,  in  spite  of  most  feeble  health,  until  some  of  his  poems 
becoming  known  enabled  him  to  add  the  earnings  of  his 
head  to  the  labors  of  his  hands.  Now  the  marvel  of  this  is 
that  this  poor  lad — an  American,  too — not  only  shows  the 
highest  genius — other  low-born  youths  have  done  that — but 
a  degree  of  taste  and  refinement  rarely  matched  in  modern 
l^oetry.  More  than  that,  some  of  his  smaller  and  less  pow- 
erful verse  has  about  it  an  aroma  of  fashion  and  high  breed- 
ing absolutely  marvellous.  Read  these  two  stanzas,  for  in- 
stance j  they  have  the  perfume  of  a  court : 

You  know  the  old  Hidalgo 

(His  box  is  next  to  ours) 
Who  threw  the  prima-donna 

The  wreath  of  orange-flowers ; 
He  owns  the  half  of  Aragon, 

With  mines  beyond  the  main, 
A  very  ancient  nobleman 

And  gentleman  of  Spain. 

They  swear  that  I  must  wed  him, 

In  spite  of  yea  and  nay, 
Though  uglier  than  the  Scaramouch, 

The  spectre  in  the  play  ; 
Lut  I  would  sooner  die  a  maid 

Than  wear  a  gilded  chain, 
For  all  the  ancient  noblemen 

And  gentlemen  of  Spain. 

He  has  written  innumerable  poems  of  far  higher  merit, 
but  is  not  this  wonderful  for  its  high-bred  air  as  coming 
from  a  maker  of  moulds  for  iron  castings  across  the  Atlan- 
tic? Did  I  tell  you  of  the  magnificent  stanzas  on  the  death 
of  Daniel  Webster,  and  that  Daniel  Webster  was  buried  in 
full-dress  like  Napoleon  ?  One  thing  I  am  sure  I  did  not 
tell  you,  for  it  has  only  just  happened — that  I  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  telling  Mr.  Hawthorne  through  Mr.  Fields  (for  we  do 


4o6  Count  Walewski. 

not  regularly  correspond,  and  our  tender  messages  pass 
through  that  medium)  that  a  Russian  literary  man  of  emi- 
nence has  translated  his  "  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  "  into 
Russian,  and  is  printing  it  feuilleton-wise  in  a  newspaper. 
One  likes  to  send  such  a  little  bit  of  news  as  that.  Also, 
dearest  Emily,  I  forget  whether  I  told  you  Mr.  Bennett's 
"Death  March  "  is  the  best  poem  I  have  seen  on  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  although  that  is  not  saying  much.  For  fear 
that  I  did  not,  I  enclose  you  a  copy  now.  The  author  spent 
two  or  three  days  here  this  week.  .  .  . 

I  had  a  long  letter  from  Marianne  Skerritt  the  other  day 
giving  an  account  of  Count  Walewski's  arrival  at  Osborne 
under  a  royal  salute  to  receive  the  Queen's  recognition  of 
the  Emperor.  Marianne  is  as  enthusiastic  on  the  subject 
as  I  am,  and  says,  "He  is  the  most  extraordinary  man  I  ever 
heard  of!"  What  a  fairy  tale  it  is !  You  know,  I  suppose, 
that  Count  Walewski  is  the  natural  son  of  the  first  emperor 
by  a  Polish  lady  so  often  mentioned  in  the  memoirs.  Ten 
years  ago  he  was  splendidly  handsome ;  now  he  is  becoming 
almost  too  stout.  The  mother  was  exquisitely  beautiful,  and 
he  took  liiore  after  her  than  his  illustrious  father,  except  in 
the  general  look  of  his  head.  Have  you  ever  read  "  Esmond  "  ? 
William  Harness  (a  friend  of  the  author's)  says,  "  I  hate  it." 
James  Payne  says,  "I  took  it  with  me  into  the  Theological 
Halls,  and  listened  to  the  professor  by  preference."  I  dis- 
like all  the  love  parts  exceedingly,  and  I  feel  it  tiresomely 
long,  and  I  dissent  from  much  of  the  criticism,  but  bits  are 
good,  especially  the  "Mock  Spectator." 

Heaven   bless  you  both,  my  dear  friends.     Love  to  the 
Crowthers  and  Elizabeth.     (I  wish  our  affair  were  over.) 
Ever  affectionately  yours, 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 

Miss  Jephson  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

Jan.  12, 1853. 
My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — Here  is  a  delightful  letter  from 
dear  Miss  Mitford.     She  is  like  lavender,  the  sweeter  the 
more  it  is  bruised.     How  wonderful  are  her  spirits  and  en- 
ergy after  such  an  accident !     You  see  that  your  letter  has 


Accident  to  Mifs  Mitford.  407 

not  vexed  her,  though  it  has  not  converted  her ;  that  I  be- 
lieve is  impossible.  What  strange  inconsistency  there  is  in 
being  so  tenacious  of  the  civil  rights  of  citizens  as  to  hold 
that  Mahometans,  Jews,  and  Hindoos  as  citizens  have  a 
claim  to  sit  in  an  English  Parliament,  while  she  applauds 
the  French  for  choosing  a  ruler  who  has  deprived  them  of 
the  right  to  speak,  or,  I  believe,  to  travel  from  one  part  of 
France  to  another  with  freedom.  ...  I  am  glad  she  is  think- 
ing of  a  second  series  of  "  Recollections."  She  cannot  be 
idle;  it  would  be  death  to  her.  Only  think  of  four  hundred 
volumes  of  French  books !  Belinda's  twelve  French  ro- 
mances richly  gilt  were  nothing  to  it. 

Enclosure: 

To-day,  my  very  dear  Emily,  brought  me  your  dear  letter, 
and  one  equally  charming  from  dear  Mr,  Starkey.  You  must 
send  this  to  him,  for  reasons  which  you  will  soon  discover. 
Ah,  you  little  know  the  plight  of  your  poor  old  friend  ! 
Nearly  three  weeks  ago  (I  sat  writing  on  Saturday  night) — 
last  Monday  fortnight — I  had  a  most  serious  accident — an 
overturn  ;*  I  was  thrown  violently  from  my  little  pony-chaise 
on  the  hard  road  in  Lady  Russell's  park;  no  bones  were 
broken,  and  nothing  hurt  but  myself;  but  the  nerve  of  the 
side — especially  that  called  the  circular  nerve,  which  goes 
round  the  shoulder-bone — and  the  nerves  of  both  hips  were 
so  much  bruised  and  lacerated,  and  the  shock  of  the  system 
was  so  great,  that  even  ten  days  after  the  accident  Mr.  May 
could  not  satisfy  himself  that  there  was  neither  fracture  nor 
dislocation  until  he  made  a  most  minute  and  searching  ex- 
amination, and  I  am  writing  to  you  at  this  moment  with  my 
left  arm  bound  tightly  to  my  body  and  no  power  of  raising 
either  foot  from  the  ground.  I  am  lifted  into  bed,  and  lifted 
out  of  bed,  and  lifted  up  in  bed,  and  cannot,  do  what  I  may, 
effect  the  slightest  change  of  posture :  the  muscular  power 
of  the  lower  limbs  seems  completely  gone.  Mr.  May  says 
that  this  accident  has  fallen  upon  the  person  in  the  world 
who,  from  previous  feebleness  and  neuralgic  affection,  was 

*  This  is  lier  second  overturn  in  a  pony-carriage ;  she  escaped  with 
less  hurt  from  the  first. — E.  Jephson. 


4o8  French  Literature. 

most  likely  to  feel  it  severely,  but  that  he  still  entertains 
hopes  that  I  may  be  restored  to  the  state  (such  as  it  was)  in 
which  this  mischance  found  me.  So  much  for  the  bad;  now 
for  the  consolation.  Nobody  else  was  hurt,  nobody  to  blame; 
the  two  parts  of  me  that  are  quite  uninjured  are  my  head 
and  my  right  hand.  I  had  just  got  four  hundred  volumes  of 
French  books.  K.  is  safe  in  bed,  and  Sam  is  really  every- 
thing in  the  way  of  help  that  a  man  can  be,  lifting  me  about, 
and  wheeling  me  about,  and  directing  a  stupid  old  nurse  and 
a  giddy  young  maid  with  surprising  foresight  and  sagacity. 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  kind  everybody  is :  poor  Lady  Rus- 
sell comes  every  day  through  mud  and  rain  and  wind  (for 
you  are  not  to  imagine  that  you  had  all  the  storm  to  your- 
selves; she  had  above  a  hundred  trees  blown  down  in  her 
park ;  among  the  rest  an  oak  of  remarkable  beauty,  belong- 
ing to  an  avenue  cut  down  when  Lord  Clarendon  built  the 
present  mansion,  had  his  noble  head  fairly  taken  off — a 
broad-browed  oak  such  as  Scott  describes  in  the  opening  of 
'•  Ivanhoe  ").  Everybody  comes  to  me,  everybody  writes  to 
me,  everybody  sends  me  books.  Mr.  Bentley  has  done  me 
good  by  giving  me  something  to  think  of,  in  writing  no  less 
than  three  pressing  applications  for  a  second  series  of"  Rec- 
ollections," and,  although  I  am  forbidden  anything  like  liter- 
ary composition,  and  even  most  letter-writing,  yet  it  is  some- 
thing to  plan  and  consider  over.  I  shall  (if  it  please  God  to 
grant  me  health  and  strength  to  accomplish  the  object)  in- 
troduce several  chapters  on  French  literature,  and  am  at  this 
moment  in  full  chase  of  all  Casimir  Delavigne's  ballads.  Do 
you  know  them  ?  They  are  of  matchless  beauty,  which  he 
seems  never  to  have  suspected,  for  a  very  few  are  printed  in 
his  "  Poesies,"  the  rest  being  scattered  here  and  there  ;  one 
which  I  read  3'ou  eight  years  ago,  of  which  the  refrain  is, 
"  Chez  I'Ambassadeur  de  France,"  I  especially  want — but 
indeed  I  want  them  all.  Also  do  you  know  the  great  satiri- 
cal poet,  Auguste  Barbier  ?  Him  I  have — I  mean  his  works 
— but  I  want  his  recent  personal  history.  The  last  thing  I 
heard  of  him  was  his  being  bought  off  by  Louis  Philippe.  I 
almost  suspect  that  he  must  be  dead,  for  else  we  should  have 
heard  of  him  rampant  under  Ledru-Rollin,  and  sent  about 


Ruskin.  409 

his  business  by  Napoleon  ;  for  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  he  was 
a  great  anti-Napoleonist,  so  far  as  the  old  Emperor  was  con- 
cerned. But  he  was  a  very  great  satirical  poet  for  all  that. 
Of  course  I  shall  be  obliged  to  leave  out  lines  and  bits  of 
lines  in  every  stanza  of  his ;  for  those  Frenchmen  call  things 
by  very  plain  names,  just  as  much  as  our  English  writers  did 
in  the  Augustan  age  of  Queen  Anne. 

This  brings  us  to  "Esmond."  Had  I  read  it  when  I  wrote 
to  you?  It  seemed  to  me,  besides  the  disgusting  love-story, 
very  long  and  tedious,  and  full  of  commonplace  and  very 
false  criticism — preferring  Addison  to  Steele,  and  decrying 
that  wonderful  master  of  English  style,  Bolingbroke.  All  the 
best  judges  seem  to  dislike  the  book — at  least,  all  who  have 
mentioned  it  to  me.  John  Ruskin  is  a  man  of  a  different 
sort.  In  his  first  passage  he  breaks  away  from  all  models, 
and  produces  morsels  of  word-painting  that  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  exceed.  Then  he  is  so  conscientious  a  writer.  For 
the  last  volume  of  the  "Stones  of  Venice,"  which  he  expects 
to  finish  in  March,  and  which,  his  father  says,  will  be  much 
finer  than  the  first,  he  spent  above  a  year  sketching  and 
measuring  upon  the  spot.  By  the  way,  he  has  a  great  con- 
tempt for  the  modern  Italians.  He  wrote  to  me  last  summer 
that  the  women's  heads  were  good  for  nothing  but  to  stick 
flowers  in,  and  the  men's  to  hang  beards  to ;  and,  at  the 
bottom  of  her  heart,  I  expect  Mrs.  Browning  to  have  .the 
same  feeling.  Over  and  over  she  has  said  of  them  to  me, 
"  My  Italians  are  too  soft."  That  book,  the  "  Casa  Guidi 
Windows,"  is  a  book  without  convictions — one  feels  that  as 
one  reads  it.  She  took  up  the  subject  because  she  had  a 
mind  to  be  an  Italian  George  Sand,  and  because  it  was 
something  to  write  about,  and  that's  all.  Tell  Mr.  Lever 
that  there  are  few  people  in  the  world  to  whom  I  feel  more 
grateful  than  to  him.  My  father,  who  was  no  literary  man, 
but  whose  taste  was  about  the  surest  that  I  have  ever  known, 
found  no  pleasure  during  the  last  half-dozen  years  of  his  life 
but  in  listening  to  my  reading.  Besides  the  best  comedians 
and  natural  history,  I  used  to  find  great  difficulty  to  get 
books  that  he  would  listen  to.  Of  writers  of  fiction,  he  had 
only  pleasure  in  Smollett  and  Fielding,  Scott,  Miss  Austen, 

18 


410  Lever. 

the  "Pickwick  Papers,"  some  of  Mr.  James's  works,  and  Mr. 
Lever's.  I  think,  of  all  modern  novels,  he  liked  "  Harry 
Lorrequer,"  "  Charles  O'Malley,"  and  "Jack  Hinton  "  best. 
He  used  to  say  (and  I  am  entirely  of  his  mind)  that  nobody 
but  a  gentleman  could  have  written  them.  He  was  a  great 
sportsman,  and  I,  who  have  lived  amongst  fox-hunters  and 
coursers  all  the  days  of  my  life,  feel  how  much  health  and 
power  and  manliness  the  habit  of  field-sports  gives  to  a 
writer.  Besides  which,  he  is  so  genial  an  Irishman  !  By  the 
way,  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  what  is  the  feeling  in  Dublin  about 
Mr.  Kirwin?  In  London  I  am  told  that  the  impression  is 
decidedly  that  there  was  nothing  like  proof  of  the  murder ; 
and  that  was  decidedly  mine  on  reading  the  report  of  the 
trial  in  the  Titties,  before  anybody  had  written  a  word  about 
it.  I  doubt  the  screams  being  heard  that  distance,  and  am 
fully  persuaded  that  the  fact  of  the  man's  being  a  wretched 
husband  influenced  all  the  people  concerned — the  witnesses, 
the  judge,  and  the  jury. 

Now  for  a  little  American  news.  Hawthorne,  who  was  an 
old  class-fellow  of  the  new  President  at  college,  and  has  been 
his  neighbor  at  the  little  town  of  Concord  (where,  by  the 
way,  Emerson  has  also  lived  for  the  last  two  years),  sees  Mr. 
Pierce  every  day,  and  will  certainly  hold  high  office  under 
him.  Three  years  ago  he  was  literally  starving.  Two  or 
three  of  my  correspondents,  of  different  politics,  all  say  that 
no  European  can  ever  imagine  the  scramble  for  place  and 
the  dirty  intrigues  which  take  place  every  few  years  under 
the  model  republic.  Have  not  the  French  done  wisely  to 
select  for  themselves  a  man  whose  name  and  whose  high 
ability  will  preserve  them  from  such  struggles?  They  say 
that  he  greatly  dislikes  the  Tuileries.  His  health  is  not 
strong,  and  the  garden  of  the  Elysee  was  a  comfort,  and  al- 
most a  necessity  to  him.  Of  our  new  ministry,  I  have  heard 
one  result  from  the  very  highest  authority,  Miss  Goldsmid. 
She  says  that  the  admission  of  Jews  to  Parliament  is  now 
certain.  The  death  of  the  duke  will  make  a  great  difference 
in  the  Lords,  and  other  circumstances  besides  the  coalition 
ministry  render  the  carrying  the  measure  certain.  This 
prospect  has  greatly  revived  her  father,  who  was  dying  of 


Binfield.  411 

heart-complaint.  He  was  the  real  man  of  the  movement 
from  first  to  last :  had  given  it  half  the  energies  of  a  most 
energetic  life,  and  it  is  well  that  he  should  see  the  cause 
triumph  at  last.  I  go  with  him  entirely,  holding  that  every 
citizen  has  a  claim  to  enjoy  civil  rights,  were  he  Mahometan 
or  Hindoo. 

And  now,  dear  friend,  I  think  I  have  disobeyed  Mr.  May 
quite  enough.  God  bless  you  both  !  The  sight  of  that 
storm  must  have  been  almost  grand  enough  to  have  made 
amends  for  the  discomfort. 

Ever  faithfully  and  affectionately  yours, 

]M.  R.  MiTFORD. 

In  a  letter,  dated  January  19,  1853,  Miss  Jephson  alludes 
to  the  project  of  publishing  her  great-uncle's  letters : 

The  transcribing  parts  of  Miss  Mitford's  letters  has  been 
quite  a  pleasure  to  me,  bringing  back  so  vividly  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  happy  time  at  Binfield  when  I  received  them — 
the  visits  to  Three  Mile  Cross,  from  which  we  were  separated 
by  about  ten  or  twelve  miles  of  beautiful  park-like  country, 
which  once  had  been  part  of  Windsor  Forest,  and  her  visits 
in  the  long  summer  days  to  Binfield  Park,  where  there  was 
so  much  to  see  that  interested  her,  pictures  and  prints — 
some  of  the  latter  had  belonged  to  Mr.  Malone,  and  were 
valuable — and  Sir  Joshua's  portraits  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  of 
dear  Lady  Sunderland,  so  like  and  so  beautiful.*  If  you 
like,  I  will  send  you  an  extract  in  every  letter  from  Miss 
Mitford's  exhaustless  stores. 

I  do  not  quite  recollect  how  it  was  that  the  plan  of  the 
book  died  away,  but  you  will  see  that  doubts  of  its  success 
were  stealing  upon  her,  and  then  there  was  the  mcessiiy  of 
finishing  her  play,  and  other  engagements,  which  had  been 
interrupted  by  this  new  project.  As  years  passed  awa)',  her 
father's  illness  and  writing  for  his  support  occupied  all  her 
thoushts  and  time. 


*  Miss  Mitford  seems  to  have  become  acquainted  with  Lady  Sunder- 
land through  Miss  Jephson  before  1852. 


412  Jephsotis  Works. 

Extract  from  a  letter  of  Mifs  Mitford  here  copied  by  Mifs 
yephson. 

"What  I  contemplate  is  asking  Mr.  Colburn  if  he  would 
like  such  a  book,  if  he  thinks  it  would  answer,  and  what  he 
would  give  for  it,  and  not  binding  myself  to  him,  with  an  un- 
derstanding that  it  might  come  out  in  the  winter  or  spring 
of  1832  ;  this  would  give  us  time  to  look  for  more  letters 
and  vciOXQ.jeux  d^ esprit.  Did  you  find  the  confessions  of  Jean 
Baptiste  Couture  ?  What  I  think  is  this :  if  we  could  make 
one  volume  of  the  life,  correspondence,  and  desultory  poems 
and  prose,  and  another  of  the  plays,  the  four  tragedies  which 
we  have,  and  of  the  farces  as  many  as  we  can  find,  to  be 
published  either  together  or  as  Colburn  might  choose," 

Extract  from  another  letter. 

"  Mr.  Talfourd  says  that  he  will  apply  to  Colburn  when- 
ever I  like,  but  that  I  must  give  Otto  the  precedence.  He 
has  got  your  uncle's  plays,  and  has  read  the  '  Count  de 
Narbonne '  and  the  *  Italian  Lover,'  which  he  thinks  full 
of  good  writing,  but  not  very  dramatic.  There  is,  however, 
little  doubt  of  Colburn's  taking  the  work.  Single-speech 
Hamilton's  letters,  and  your  father's  sketch  of  the  life,  will 
be  invaluable  acquisitions.  I  have  desired  W.  Harness  to 
ask  Mr.  Kemble  and  Mrs.  Siddons  if  they  can  give  us  any 
help,  which  I  think  not  unlikely,  especially  in  the  affair  of  the 
'  Conspiracy.' " 

Extract  from  another  letter. 

"W.  Harness  certainly  underrates  the  pla)'s.  His  taste  is 
a  little  warped  by  his  love  of  the  poetry  of  Joanna  Baillie's 
style.  I  would  rather  far  have  written  the  last  act  of  the 
'Italian  Lover,'  with  its  fine  conception,  its  admirable  con- 
duct, its  passion,  and  its  intensity,  than  all  the  plays  on  the 
passions  put  together.  The  fact  is  that  Joanna  Baillie  had 
imbued  her  mind  with  the  fine  rich  style  of  the  old  writers, 
and  had  herself  a  fancy  full  of  poetical  imagery ;  but  she 
entirely  wanted  construction,  had  less  of  character  than  Mr. 
Jephson,  and  had  not  an  idea  of  that  real  and  great  thing, 
stage  effect  (of  course  I  do  not  mean  pageants  and  proces- 


Charles  Lever.  413 

sions),  but  the  turns  of  fortune  and  development  of  story  in 
which  Shakespeare  is  quite  as  unrivalled  as  in  his  individu- 
ality of  character  and  poetry  of  diction.  If  Mr.  Jephson's 
plays  be  less  poetical  than  Joanna  Baillie's,  they  are  more 
eloquent,  and  eloquence  seems  to  me  far  more  akin  to  pas- 
sion than  mere  beauty  of  imagery,  however  delightful.  I  am 
quite  sorry  that  William  is  not  coming,  that  we  might  fight 
the  battle  out.  One  proof  is  that  Mr.  Jephson's  plays  did 
act  successfully  (in  spite  of  the  recumbent  statue),  and  that 
Joanna  Baillie's  do  not.  Do  write  for  the  Life  and  for  Horace 
Walpole's  letters — I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  giving  up  the 
scheme." 

Miss  Mitford  to  Mr.  Starkev. 

Jan,  31,  1853. 

Thank  you  earnestly,  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  for  your  most  kind 
note  and  for  Mr.  Lever's,  which  I  venture  to  retain.  I,  like 
him,  set  little  store  by  praise  (always  excepting  general 
popularity) — I  mean  that  I  set  little  store  by  individual 
praise,  except  it  come  from  a  quarter  for  which  I  have  my- 
self a  considerable  value,  and  Mr.  Lever  is  of  those  few.  I 
know  no  writer  whose  works  are  so  unmistakably  those  of  a 
gentleman.  They  say  that  the  Irish  gentleman  is  the  ideal 
of  that  word  in  mind  and  manner,  and  really  in  his  books 
there  is  the  confirmation  of  the  theory.  The  English  novels 
of  these  days  seem  to  me  the  more  detestable  the  one  than 
the  other — Dickens  all  cant  (Liberal  cant,  the  worst  sort) 
and  caricature ;  Thackeray  all  cynicism,  with  an  affectation 
of  fashionable  experience ;  and  the  lady-writers,  the  Miss 
Jewsburys,  the  Miss  I^ynns,  and  tutte  gueste,  emulous  of  the 
passion  and  doing  of  George  Sand,  without  her  grossness, 
but  also  without  her  genius  and  her  beauty. 

When  you  come  to  know  me,  you  will  be  amused  at  your 
own  fears  about  my  spirits.  I  am  a  very  proverb  of  cheer- 
fulness. William  Harness  says  that,  so  long  as  I  breathe,  so 
long  shall  I  talk  all  manner  of  gayety.  Mr.  May  complains 
that  he  never  can  tell  how  I  am,  because  my  conversation  is 
so  deceiving.  My  maid  K.  orders  people  away,  because,  so 
long  as  I  have  company,  I  wear  myself  out  with  my  good 
spirits.      High  animal  spirits,  that  great  gift  of  God,  have 


414  Mifs  Mit ford's  Sufferings. 

sustained  me  through  a  life  of  anxiety  and  labor,  hardly  per- 
haps to  be  paralleled  in  the  long  list  of  poor  authors.  The 
fact  is  that  you  are  probably  amongst  the  many  who,  never 
having  experienced  or  witnessed  the  state,  are  happily  igno- 
rant how  very  much  worse  than  a  broken  bone,  or  than  two 
or  three  broken  bones,  is  a  severe  injury  to  the  principal 
nerves  of  the  principal  joints — how  very  much  more  painful, 
and  how  infinitely  more  tedious  and  more  difficult  to  cure. 
For  about  a  month  my  left  arm  was  tied  up  in  one  shawl 
slingwise,  and  bound  lightly  to  my  body  with  another,  to  pre- 
vent the  terrible  pain  which  the  slightest  motion  sent  upward 
and  downward  through  the  limb  and  the  whole  side.  That 
is  now  going  on  favorably,  and  there,  is  little  doubt  but  the 
use  of  the  arm  will  be  slowly  and  gradually  recovered.  But 
the  lower  limbs  are  even  now  (above  six  weeks  after  the 
accident)  so  affected  that  I  can  neither  stand  nor  put  one 
foot  before  the  other.  I  am  lifted  into  bed,  and  out  of  bed, 
and  up  in  bed ;  cannot  turn  when  there,  nor  make  the  slight- 
est motion  ;  have  quite  for  the  present  lost  all  muscular 
power,  retaining  great  and  constant  pain  ;  and  Mr.  May  says 
that  until  warm  weather,  until  the  spring  shall  be  fairly  set 
in,  I  must  continue  as  I  am — ^just  lifted  into  a  great  chair, 
and  wheeled  to  the  fireside,  without  even  attempting  to  leave 
the  room.  You  will  admit  that  this  terrible  helplessness,  at- 
tended as  it  is  with  constant  sleeplessness,  is  no  fanciful  evil 
— everybody  is  astonished  at  my  good  spirits.  But  these 
injuries  to.  the  principal  nerves  are  most  serious.  Only  last 
week  a  near  neighbor  of  mine,  a  young  and  active  man,  in  a 
fall  from  his  horse  in  hunting,  bruised  one  of  the  nerves 
connected  with  the  spine,  and  was  for  twenty-four  hours  in 
imminent  danger  of  lockjaw.     He  is  now  recovering. 

Adieu,  dear  friend.  I  am  now  hunting  for  a  ballad  of 
Casimir  Delavigne's,  of  which  the  refrain  is  "  Chez  I'Ambas- 
sadeur  de  France."  If  you  meet  with  it,  do  not  fail  to  send 
it  to  me.     It  is  short. 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 


TJie  Empress  Eugenie.  41 5 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson". 

March  8,  1853. 
I  don't  know,  dearest  Emily,  whether  I  told  you  that  Mr. 
Huddleston,  the  head  of  one  of  our  great  Catholic  families, 
was  in  despair  at  the  l^mperor's  marriage.  He  had  followed 
the  Empress  from  Spain  to  Paris  when  he  was  recalled  by 
the  illness  of  his  father.  The  father  died,  and  he  was  about 
to  return  to  France  and  throw  himself  and  his  ;^40,ooo  a 
year  at  her  feet,  when  the  Emperor  stepped  in  and  carried 
off  the  prize.  A  friend  of  mine  saw  a  portrait  of  her  on 
horseback  at  his  house  last  week.  Lady  Russell,  herself  a 
Frenchwoman,  hears  from  Paris  that  one  of  the  libels  they 
wish  suppressed  was  based  on  the  statement  that  the  Span- 
ish grandee  who  married  the  Empress's  mother  was  a  most 
wretched,  deformed  little  creature.  I  shall  now  transcribe 
for  you  a  passage  concerning  her  in  Mrs.  Browning's  last 
letter.  "  I  wonder  if  the  Empress  pleases  you  as  well  as  the 
Emperor.  1  approve  altogether,  none  the  less  that  he  has 
offended  Austria,  in  the  mode  of  arrangement ;  every  cut  of 
the  whip  in  the  face  of  Austria  being  a  personal  compliment 
to  me — at  least,  so  I  consider  it.  Let  him  head  the  democ- 
racy, and  do  his  duty  to  the  world,  and  use  to  the  utmost  his 
great  opportunities.  Mr.  Cobden  and  the  Peace  Society  are 
pleasing  me  infinitely  just  now  in  making  head  against  the 
immorality  (that's  the  word)  of  the  English  press.  The  tone 
taken  up  towards  France  is  immoral  in  the  highest  degree, 
and  the  invasion  cry  would  be  idiotic  if  it  were  not  some- 
thing worse.  The  Empress,  I  heard  the  other  day  from  the 
best  authority,  is  charming,  and  good  at  heart.  She  was 
educated  at  a  respectable  school  at  Bristol,  and  is  very  Eng- 
lish, which  does  not  prevent  her  shooting  with  pistols,  leap- 
ing gates,  driving  four-in-hand,  or  upsetting  the  carriage  when 
the  frolic  requires  it — as  brave  as  a  lion,  and  as  true  as  a 
dog.  Her  complexion  is  like  marble,  white  and  pale  and 
pure ;  her  hair  light,  inclining  to  sandy — they  say  she  pow- 
ders it  with  gold-dust  for  effect — but  her  beauty  is  more  in- 
tellectual and  less  physical  than  is  commonly  reported.  She 
is  a  woman  of  very  decided  opinions.     I  like  all  this — don't 


41 6  Mr.  Fields. 

you? — and  I  like  her  letter  to  the  Prefet,  as  everybody  must. 
Ah!  if  the  English  press  were  in  earnest  in  the  cause  of  lib- 
erty, there  would  be  something  to  say  for  our  poor,  trampled- 
down  Italy — much  to  say,  I  mean.  Under  my  eyes  is  a  people 
really  oppressed,  really  groaning  its  heart  out ;  but  these 
things  are  spoken  of  with  indifference."  So  far  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing. She  tells  me  also  that  her  husband's  play,  "  Colombe's 
Birthday,"  is  to  be  produced  at  the  Haymarket  in  April,  with 
Miss  Helen  Fawcett  that  was  (I  forget  her  new  name)  as 
the  heroine.  Also  she  is  very  curious  on  the  subject  of 
the  American  rappings.  So  I  have  written  to  Mrs.  Presi- 
dent Sparks,  whose  husband  has  just  sent  me  two  capital 
trimmings  of  Lord  Mahon,  who  criticised  the  great  edition 
of  "Washington's  Writings,"  which  he,  the  president,  had 
brought  out,  and  who  is  (I  mean  Mrs.  President),  of  all  my 
American  correspondents,  the  one  most  likely  to  enter  heart 
and  soul  into  the  rapping  question.  I  don't  suppose  Dr. 
Holmes  or  Mr.  Fields  believe  any  more  of  it  than  they  do 
of  the  Cock  Lane  ghost. 

N.B. — I  send  you  also  a  scrap  of  James  Fields's  letter,  just 
arrived  to  Mr.  Bennoch,  which  he  dutifully  forwarded  to  me, 
and  which  I  have  of  course  returned.  It  is  just  exactly  a 
bit  of  the  man  himself,  who  is,  beyond  all  manner  of  doubt, 
the  brightest  piece  of  sunshine  that  ever  came  in  my  path. 
You  see  he  has  even  taken  Thackeray's  fancy,  who  is  any- 
thing but  an  enthusiast.  If  I  could  find  it,  I  would  also  send 
you  a  letter  from  Paris,  describing  the  wedding,  and  the  ex- 
ceeding beauty  of  the  city,  which  is  becoming  more  splendid 
from  day  to  day ;  but  that  letter  has  gone  astray  among  my 
wilderness  of  papers,  and  I  can  only  tell  you  two  nice  pieces 
of  news — that  young  Alexandre  Dumas  is  said  to  be  one  of 
the  persons  incarcerated  for  libel,  and  that  Lamartine  is 
utterly  ruined,  for  which  one  is  sorry,  with  all  his  youth,  and 
his  age,  and  with  his  broken  health.  There  must  have  been 
great  extravagance,  as  there  was  with  by  far  the  greatest  of 
those  French  writers,  Balzac,  and  is  with  Dumas;  for  all 
three  have  earned  immensely,  and  neither  had  any  claims 
of  rank,  or  of  large  families,  or  of  anything  except  habits  of 
luxury  and  expense  to  account  for  their  profusion.     Did  I 


Verno7i  Har court.  41/ 

tell  you  of  a  very  interesting  picture  which  Miss  James  hap- 
pened upon  in  London  last  year.  She  was  going  to  see  a 
mutual  friend  of  hers  and  mine,  a  very  remarkable  single 
woman,  of  the  name  of  Crenering  (?),  who  shares  a  large 
house  with  Mr.  Phillips,  the  portrait-painter,  in  George  Street, 
Hanover  Square.  Whether  she  mistook  the  door,  or  whether 
she  went  purposely  into  one  of  Mr.  Phillips's  rooms,  I  don't 
know,  but  she  found  herself  in  front  of  a  St.  Cecilia  picture 
— a  most  intellectual  and  spiritual-looking  woman  sitting  at 
an  organ,  apparently  absorbed  by  the  music  which  she  was 
producing  from  the  instrument,  but  looking  upward,  and  so 
attenuated  that  the  spirit  seemed  about  to  leave  the  body. 
It  was  Lady  Lovelace,  as  she  last  played  the  organ — her 
farewell  to  music — painted  for  Lady  Byron.  Nobody  but 
the  family  had  seen  or  were  to  see  it. 

Do  you  see  the  Times  ?  and,  if  so,  do  you  remember  cer- 
tain letters  signed  "  An  Englishman,"  abusing  my  dear  Em- 
peror.'' Those  letters  had  a  tone  of  authority  which  might 
have  become  not  merely  a  judge  or  a  bishop,  but  a  cardinal 
or  lord-chancellor.  Well,  they  were  written  by  an  under- 
graduate at  Oxford,  a  lad  called  Vernon  Harcourt,  whom  our 
lad  here,  George  Russell,  whom  his  mother  and  I  pet  and 
scold  all  day  long,  talks  of  as  his  junior.  I'm  not  sure  that 
he  was  not  his  fag  at  Eton.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much 
this  has  amused  me.  The  letters  were  inflated  and  bom- 
bastic enough  for  Tom  Thumb,  but  there  was  an  air  of 
grandeur  about  them  which  must  have  taken  in  the  Times. 
What  a  fool  the  lad  was  not  to  keep  his  own  secrets  !  God 
bless  you,  dear  love  !     I'm  no  better. 

Ever  yours,  M.  R.  Mitford. 

Enclosed  in  the  above  letter  is  the  following  extract  from 
a  letter  from  Mr.  Fields  to  Mr.  Bennoch,  Februarj',  1853  : 

"  Well,  how  are  you  all  at  Blackheath  ?  Does  the  sun 
shine  upon  you  and  yours  as  usual  ?  Are  leaves  flitting 
about  your  dwelling — I  mean,  the  poetical  ones  ?  As  the 
winter  draws  near  its  close  I  begin  to  look  over  the  waves 
towards  the  English  shore.     I  feel  weary,  and  my  dreams 

18* 


41 8  Mr.  Fields. 

are  of  lanes  and  cottages  and  railroad  trains  to  Greenwich 
and  Blackheath.  I  think  I  hear  every  morning  the  voice  of 
Ellen  warning  me  that  it  is  seven  o'clock.  I  shake  hands 
with  old  Yankee  friends  and  call  them  Bennoch,  and  Mac- 
kay,  and  Soniers,  and  Riggs.  I  am  continually  ordering 
whitebait  for  dinner,  in  a  land  where  such  things  are  not;  I 
talk  of  going  to  the  Opera  and  the  Princess's,  and  the  people 
about  me  don't  understand  what  I  mean.  I  count  my  dol- 
lars and  cents  in  pounds  and  shillings  and  pence,  and  the 
shopkeepers  think  I  am  mad — in  short,  the  English  fever 
has  again  laid  hold  of  me.  I  am  completely  in  its  power. 
I  do  not  dare  say  a  word  about  'going  over  the  waters  to 
Bennoch,'  but  I  look  at  my  partners  with  a  woe-begone 
face  every  time  the  steamer  leaves  our  port.  The  truth  is, 
I  fear  Ticknor  and  Reed  will  never  consent  to  my  leaving 
again  for  Europe.  We  are  all  plunged  lip-deep  in  traffic, 
and  my  presence  here  is  most  important.  I  hope  and  pray 
the  spring  may  not  pass  without  my  walking  down  the 
Strand. 

"  Thackeray  is  having  a  fine  reception  in  the  States.  He 
took  quite  a  fancy  to  your  humble  servant,  and  when  he  left 
Boston  wrote  me  the  most  friendly  letter,  accompanied  by  a 
splendid  silver  drinking-goblet  as  a  memorial  of  our  friend- 
ship. 

"  Do  you  often  see  Miss  Mitford  ?  That  sad  accident 
made  everybody  feel  sad.  Holmes,  Hawthorne,  and  Long- 
fellow deeply  regretted  it." 


Letters  from  Mifs  Mitford.  419 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Letters  from  Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson  and  Digby  Starkey. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Digby  Starkey,  Esq. 

March  13,  1853. 

My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — I  have  written  two  or  three  let- 
ters to  dear  Emily,  and  trusted  to  her  habit  of  copying  them 
for  their  reaching  you,  I  do  that  with  some  American 
friends,  and  one  dear,  busy  friend  does  so  with  Mr.  Bennoch 
and  myself.  My  excuse  is  always  an  overwhelming  corres- 
pondence, and  just  now  I  have  another  reason  for  abridging 
writing  as  much  as  may  be.  My  three  months'  confinement 
to  one  dusty,  smoky  room,  and  the  quantity  of  ashes  caused 
by  perpetual  fires  has  occasioned  a  weakness  of  the  eyes, 
which  startles  me  a  little,  although  it  will  probably  cease 
with  the  cause.  For  the  rest  I  am  no  better,  but,  as  far  as 
pain  goes,  perhaps , worse  than  before  the  late  cold  weather. 
However,  the  spring  is  really  coming  now,  and  I  must  wait 
its  effects  with  patience.  I  rejoice  in  the  amendment  of 
Mr.  Starkey.  It  has  been  a  most  trying  season — between 
accident  and  illness  not  a  family  in  this  neighborhood  has 
escaped. 

Your  outpouring  of  feeling  on  Mr.  Layard's  most  interest- 
ing book  is  by  far  the  most  eloquent  that  I  have  met  with — 
eloquence  of  truth  and  of  heart,  as  well  as  of  talent.  Be- 
sides all  that  you  say,  it  suggested  to  me  the  astonishing 
adaptability  of  different  intellects  to  pursuits  the  most  diffi- 
cult, and  apparently  the  most  untempting :  Cuvier  collect- 
ing fossil  bones,  and  re-creating  the  grisly  monsters  of  a 
former  state  of  existence ;  Layard  delving  extinct  cities 
from  the  mounds  of  the  desert ;  Dr.  Hirsch  deciphering  lost 
languages  to  which  there  did  not  seem  the  slightest  clew. 
These  men  seem  born  for  their  work.     I  heard  of  Mr.  Lay- 


420  Mr.  Layard. 

ard  last  week.  He  is  gone  to  Constantinople  to  join  Lord 
Stratford — I  suppose  in  some  diplomatic  capacity.  Person- 
ally I  do  not  know  him,  but  he  is  much  with  a  dear  friend  of 
mine,  and  we  interchange  messages.  He  seems  to  be  dif- 
ferent from  what  his  doings  would  lead  one  to  expect,  a  very 
refined  and  courtly  person,  shrinking  from  the  slightest 
touch  of  ridicule,  rather  than  the  bold  adventurer  which  one 
would  look  for  in  the  man  who  gained  every  step  of  his 
great  discoveries  at  the  cost  of  a  contest  with  the  Arabs. 
They  speak  of  him  as  a  charming  person,  but  this  is  the 
notion  I  have  gained  from  several  anecdotes.  Mr.  Justice 
Talfourd  has  sent  me  from  Oxford  (he  mentioned  it  at  Read- 
ing, where  indeed  he  was  so  pressed  by  business  that  he 
could  not  get  to  me)  a  new  tragedy,  called  the  "Castilian," 
printed,  but  not  published,  and  at  present,  to  use  his  own 
words,  "  a  very  private  sin,  having  only  been  given  to  eight 
or  ten  persons."  It  is  more  like  "  Ion  "  in  the  writing  than 
either  of  his  other  plays,  and  is  grounded  on  the  Revolt  of 
Toledo,  under  Don  John  de  Padilla,  in  the  early  part  of  the 
reign  of  Charles  V. 

You  must  ask  dear  Emily  for  an  interesting  account  of 
the  Empress  sent  to  me  by  Mrs.  Browning.  I  enclose,  at  the 
risk  of  her  also  transcribing  it,  a  curious  instance  of  figures 
turning  into  a  word,  and  that  word  a  prophecy,*  and  I  add  a 
story  I  heard  yesterday,  that  the  Empress  shot  thirty-three 
brace  of  partridges  one  morning  at  St.  Cloud,  being,  added 
my  informant,  in  spite  of  that  so  sweet  and  charming  a 
creature  that  any  man  might  fall  in  love  with  her. 

Adieu,  dear  friend.  Ever  yours, 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 

*  The  numbers  for  the  election  of  President  of  France  in  favor  of 
Louis  Napoleon  were 

For      Against 


yiipjgilijig 


Look  through  the  back  of  this  against  the  candle  or  the  fire,  or  any  light. 


spirit-rappings.  421 

Miss  Mitford  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

June  2,  1853. 
Never  dream  of  apologizing  to  me,  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  for 
fits  of  silence.  Scott,  in  one  of  those  charming  introductory 
epistles  to  "  Marmion  "  which  are  full  of  the  common  nat- 
ural feelings,  which,  if  expressed  before,  have  never  been  half 
y  so  well  expressed,  talks  of  pursuing  a  ramble  with  a  friend 
sometimes  in  chat,  sometimes  in  "jovial  silence;"  and  I 
am  sure  that  this  feeling  of  entire  liberty,  whether  in  conver- 
sation or  in  correspondence — the  not  being  expected  either 
to  talk  or  to  write  for  civility's  sake — is  amongst  the  most 
enduring  privileges  of  friendly  intercourse.  Besides,  we 
hear  of  one  another  through  dear  Emily,  who  may  be  safely 
trusted  to  transmit  whatever  is  worth  telling  from  one  to  the 
other.  I  see  that  she  has  sent  you  Dr.  Holmes's  stanzas  on 
Moore,  which  are  so  curiously  like  the  writer  they  com- 
memorate that  one  would  think  he  had  dictated  them 
through  a  "  medium,"  if  the  charming  American  were  not  a 
scoflfer  at  the  spirits  and  their  rappings.  So,  indeed,  are  all 
my  American  friends,  and  they  tell  me  that  the  thing  is  dy- 
ing away  across  the  Atlantic.  In  Italy  they  are  better  be- 
lievers. Mrs.  Browning  tells  me  that  Robert  Owen  of  La- 
nark has  been  converted  to  a  belief  in  the  immortality  of  the 
soul  by  these  spirit-rappings.  Now,  knowing  Robert  Owen, 
I  think  that  he  would  most  assuredly  have  been  converted 
without  them,  for  he,  in  spite  of  his  crotchets,  is  a  thoroughly 
kind  and  honest  man,  who  has  no  interest  in  disbelieving  a 
future  state.  Well,  I  doubt  if  you  be  rapping  in  Dublin,  but 
of  course  you  are  table-turning.  All  the  world  is  so  em- 
ployed, and  that  great/ait  acco7npli  flourishes  pre-eminently 
in  Svvallowfield.  The  young  Russells  are  surcharged  with 
electricity ;  the  girls  cannot  take  off  a  flannel  petticoat  but 
it  crackles,  or  brush  their  hair  in  the  dark  but  it  emits 
sparks  like  a  cat.  Of  course  under  their  manipulation 
tables  spin  like  teetotums.  One  thing,  however,  is  curious. 
It  had  been  held  that  any  metal  prevented  the  operation, 
and  trinkets  were  discarded  accordingly.  The  other  night 
one  of  the  young  ladies,  in  the  midst  of  the  evolutions  of  a 


422  Mifs  Mit ford's  Conditiofi, 

rosewood  table,  suddenly  proposed  to  remove  their  rings  and 
bracelets  ;  they  paused  for  a  moment  to  do  so,  and  the  table 
paused  also,  but  the  moment  they  replaced  their  thumbs 
and  fingers  on  the  wood  it  began  turning  again  as  rapidly  as 
ever  the  reverse  way  !  If  anything  could  be  more  unaccount- 
able than  another  where  all  is  a  puzzle,  this  manoeuvre  would 
seem  so.  I  suppose  it  must  be  electricity,  or  magnetism, 
or  some  new  fluid  of  which  the  agency  has  hitherto  been 
unknown.  Of  the  fact  there  is  no  doubting,  nor  of  nervous 
people  being  far  more  charged  with  it  than  others. 

I  am  still  very  lame,  carried,  or  rather  lifted,  step  by  step 
up  and  down  stairs  and  into  bed,  and  unable  to  stir  when 
recumbent,  almost  to  move  when  seated.  Besides  this,  I  am 
all  over  as  sore  as  if  I  were  pounded  in  a  mortar,  and,  al- 
though quite  as  cheerful  as  ever,  yet  paying  for  temporary 
excitement  by  exceeding  weakness  afterwards.  In  short,  I 
am  as  infirm,  as  feeble,  and  as  lively  as  it  is  well  possible 
for  a  woman  to  be.  I  am  got  into  the  air,  and  I  enjoy  it  so 
much  that  I  cannot  but  hope  that  it  must  eventually  do  me 
good.  It  seems  to  me  that  never  was  the  marriage  of  May 
and  June,  which  is  always  the  loveliest  moment  of  the  year, 
so  beautiful  as  now.  The  richness  of  the  foliage  in  our  deep- 
wooded  lanes,  the  perfume  of  the  bean-fields,  the  luxuriant 
blossoming  of  all  sorts  of  flowering  trees.  I  have  some 
lilacs  of  both  colors,  especially  the  white,  which  I  would 
match  against  those  of  which  Horace  Walpole  was  so  fond 
at  Strawberry  Hill,  We  have  curious  things,  too,  in  our 
hedgerows — natural  puzzles.  Our  hollies  hereabout  are  al- 
most trees,  and  one,  whilst  his  fellows  are  covered  with  pale 
flowers,  has  retained  all  the  coral  berries  which  the  birds 
ought  to  have  eaten  in  the  winter.     Why  is  this  ? 

Of  all  your  exhibition  the  wisest  part  seems  to  me  the 
picture-gallery.  But  I  suppose  anything  is  wise  which  car- 
ries people  to  Ireland  and  the  fine  scenery,  which  is  worth 
all  the  exhibitions  under  the  sun.  If  you  have  a  command 
of  French  books  read  Sainte-Beuve's  "  Causeries  du  Lundi," 
charming  volumes,  full  of  variety  and  attraction  in  every 
way.  Ever,  dear  friend,  faithfully  yours, 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 


''Haydons  Life''  423 

Miss  Mitford  to  Digby  Starkey,  Esq. 

July,  1853- 

I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  my  dear  and 
kind  friend,  for  the  great  favor  which  you  propose  to  do  me, 
which  you  have  done  me,  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  those 
two  kind  words  in  print  will  hardly  equal  that  of  seeing  them 
in  your  own  handwriting.  Thank  you  again  and  again. 
We  get  choice  in  praise  as  we  grow  old,  prizing  it  according 
to  the  estimation  we  set  upon  the  praiser,  and  measured  by 
that  scale  these  lines  have  indeed  a  high  value!  I  only 
wish  that  you  were  here,  that  an  honest  and  warm  grasp  of 
the  hand  might  tell  the  feelings  of  the  heart.  "  Haydon's 
Life  "  has  not  yet  reached  me.  The  family  wanted  me  to 
edit  it  (the  actual  editor  is  Professor  Tom  Taylor,  the  man 
oi  Punch),  but  the  book  will  tell  you  why  I  refused.  I  knew 
poor  Haydon  quite  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  there  would 
be  much  that  would  hurt  the  feelings  of  many.  At  the  time 
when  I  and  others — my  betters — as  if  by  common  accord, 
hailed  him  in  sonnets,  he  held  forth  a  promise  in  painting 
which  he  never  kept.  .  .  . 

His  conversation  was  singularly  brilliant,  fearless,  bold, 
original,  full  of  impulse,  and  of  the  keenest  observation  of 
character,  dashed  with  a  certain  coarseness  of  accent  too 
much  in  accord  with  coarseness  of  mind.  The  faculty  he 
always  wanted  was  taste,  and  that  is  an  ominous  deficiency, 
for  surely  taste  is  even  more  a  moral  than  an  intellectual 
quality.  I  am  very  curious  to  see  that  book.  Before  leav- 
ing the  subject  of  Henry  Chorley  (of  the  At/iencBum,  you 
know),  he  told  me  that  "Villette"  is  the  actual  experience 
of  Miss  Bronte'.  She  went  over  to  Brussels,  becoming  what 
he  calls  "an  usher"  in  a  Belgian  school,  and  encountered 
most  of  the  persons  she  describes.  Strange  persons  they 
are  —  wonderful  in  these  smooth  days,  and  yet  men  and 
women  after  all.  Mrs.  Jameson  is  the  incarnation  of  one 
of  the  worst  things  in  this  age,  the  spirit  of  cotorie.  Oh, 
how  wise  Scott  was  in  avoiding  that  snare  ! 

I  must  tell  you  what  has  three  times  befallen  me  this  last 
week.     My  maid  K.,  in  putting  me  to  bed,  burst  into  a 


424  Glow-worms. 

storm  of  exclamations,  all  referring  to  the  candlestick;  I 
looked,  and  saw  nothing  but  a  dingy  caterpillar  about  half 
an  inch  long.  It  moved,  and  a  little  bright  star  of  bluish 
greenish  light  was  reflected  on  the  silver.  It  was  a  glow- 
worm !  We  extinguished  the  candle,  and  the  candlestick 
was  sent  to  one  of  the  grass-plots  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  in  about  ten  minutes  the  beautiful  insect  had  crawled 
out  upon  the  turf.  Four  nights  after,  exactly  the  same 
thing  occurred,  and  another  glow-worm  was  found  on  one 
of  the  lower  windows.  We  can  only  account  for  these 
visits  to  the  candlestick  by  the  circumstance  of  there  being 
both  nights  a  little  jar  of  fresh -gathered  pinks  upon  the 
table.  But  none  have  been  found  among  the  pinks  in  their 
own  home,  the  garden,  nor  did  I  ever  hear  of  a  glow-worm 
indoors.  Did  you?  K.,  who  is  full  of  pretty  sayings,  will 
have  it  that,  now  that  I — always  so  fond  of  those  stars  of 
the  earth — can  no  longer  go  to  see  them,  they  come  to  visit 
me.  I  am  no  better,  and  paid  for  the  pleasure  of  two  or 
three  visits  to  me  lately  by  never  closing  my  eyes  the  night 
before  or  the  night  after  their  arrival.  Neither  can  I  rise 
from  my  seat,  or  stand,  or  walk,  or  turn  in  bed.  It  is  a  very 
wearisome  and  painful  helplessness,  but  I  bless  God  that  I 
have  many  alleviations — there  always  are,  I  think,  to  every 
trial,  if  we  will  but  look  for  them.  Besides  all  this,  I  am 
much  engaged,  partly  with  correspondents  who,  not  being 
dear  friends,  cannot  be  put  aside. 

May  I  ask  you  to  lend  this  letter  to  dearest  Emily  ?     She 
will  accept  it  as  one  to  her.     Adieu,  dear  friend. 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

Swallowfield,  Aug.  18,  1853. 
This  is  a  note  of  adieu,  dear  Mr.  Starkey,  to  you  and  dear- 
est Emily,  for  I  have  concluded  the  agreement  for  the  two 
works,  and  must  abstain  from  all  correspondence  until  both 
be  completed.  Although  quite  separate,  the  publications 
will,  for  advertising  and  bookselling  reasons,  appear  nearly 
together.  God  grant  me  strength  to  do  justice  to  myself 
and  the  publishers,  who  have  behaved  admirably  through- 


Gof sip  about  Atithors.  425 

out.  Haydon's  book  is  the  work  of  the  year.  It  has  com- 
pletely stopped  the  sale  of  Moore's,  which  really  might  have 
been  written  by  a  Court  newspaper  or  a  Court  milliner. 
You  would  have  liked  Haydon ;  you  could  not  have  helped 
yourself.  Mr.  Bennoch,  who  was  here  Saturday  with  the 
Kingsleys  and  Mr.  Ticknor  (I  wish  you  had  been  of  the 
party)  said  of  him  :  "  He  seldom  kept  his  promises  to  me, 
but  he  always  tried  to  do  so,  which  morally  is  the  same 
thing."  Was  not  this  fine  in  Mr.  Bennoch  ?  He  is  a  splen- 
did person,  full  of  talent  and  intelligence  and  genial  pleas- 
antry, but  with  a  certain  calm  dignity,  the  fruit,  I  suppose, 
of  constant  right -doing.  Hawthorne  was  to  have  come 
with  them,  but,  being  a  personal  and  most  obliged  friend  of 
the  President  (his  post,  nominally  worth  $2000,  is  really 
worth  $5000),  he  thinks  it  right  to  obey  the  ordinance  for 
consuls  to  stay  in  their  places,  so  that  he  has  not  been 
in  London  yet,  and  will  not  come  till  the  end  of  the  month. 
Then  I  shall  see  him.  I  will  tell  him  what  you  say.  It  is 
a  fine  and  a  just  criticism.  Mr.  Ticknor  himself  and  most 
superior  men  say  that  I  shall  like  him.  He  will  not  do 
to  be  lionized,  or  even  drawn  out,  but  when  he  likes  his 
company  he  comes  out  himself,  and  is  often  really  brill- 
iant. Mr.  Ticknor  says  that  the  rappings  have  driven  so 
many  people  to  the  madhouse  that  there  is  a  question  in 
the  States  of  forbidding  such  practices  by  law.  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing believes  in  them.  She  would  have  believed  in  the  Cock 
Lane  ghost. 

The  Bennochs  came  to  me  from  Albury — that  is,  Tupper's 
house,  near  Guildford  —  and  Martin  Tupper,  a  singularly 
good-natured  man,  though  I  cannot  read  his  books,  had 
Alexander  Smith  down  there  during  his  stay  in  London. 
Besides  an  atrocious  squint,  which  he  cannot  help,  he  was 
dirty  to  a  degree  quite  incredible,  discontented,  and  con- 
ceited, which  he  could.  Mr.  Tupper  took  him  over  that 
beautiful  neighborhood,  but  he  expressed  no  pleasure  in 
anything;  he  praised  half-a-dozen  lines  of  his  which  he 
repeated,  upon  which  the  poet  observed,  "  If  I  had  known 
that  you  liked  that  passage,  I  would  have  left  it  out  of  the 
new  edition."    This  is  a  fact.     He  did  act  upon  this  orig- 


426  ''Atherton." 

inal  principle  by  cutting  out  bodily  several  lines  praised 
by  persons  of  taste,  leaving  those  which  went  before  and 
came  after  to  join  themselves  as  they  could.  He  must 
be  a  little  mad.  At  all  events,  his  conduct  at  Albury 
lost  him  the  patronage  of  Mr.  Bennoch,  who  could  and 
would  have  placed  him  in  some  commercial  or  manufact- 
uring situation,  where  he  would  have  had  a  decent  com- 
petence, books,  notice,  and  leisure  to  produce  poetry,  if  the 
real  thing  were  in  him.  There  is  an  elder  Tennyson,  the 
third  of  the  poet-brothers,  who  is  about  to  print  a  volume — 
"better  than  Charles,"  Mrs.  Browning  says,  ''worse  than 
Alfred."  My  reason  for  caring  little  about  the  mob  of 
hack-writers  to  whom  Mr.  James  belongs  is  their  ignorance. 
They  write,  but  they  don't  read.  ]\Iy  most  accomplished 
friends  are  Mr.  Pearson,  the  Vicar  of  Sonning,  the  bosom 
friend  of  Arthur  Stanley — no  author  —  and  Mr.  Bennoch, 
who  has  "the  faculty  divine,"  but  not  time  to  put  it  on 
paper.  You  would  soon  get  tired  of  authors  if  you  saw 
much  of  them.  I  have  just  received  a  very  beautiful  book 
from  one  who  forms  an  exception  to  the  rule — John  Ruskin's 
new  volume  of  the  "  Stones." 

This  is  an  adieu  to  dear  Emily  also.     God  bless   you 
both  !  Ever  yours,  M.  R.  M. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

April  23, 1854. 
I  thank  you  heartily,  dearest  Mr.  Starkey,  first  for  liking 
my  book  so  well,  and  then  for  telling  me  so.  Certainly  the 
kindness  with  which  it  was  received  is  something  most  un- 
usual, and  has  cheered  me  like  a  mark  of  personal  interest. 
The  only  coldish  notice  (the  AthencBum)  came  from  an  in- 
timate friend,*  for  v.'hom,  in  his  secret  tribulation  of  having 
two  plays  damned  in  a  fortnight,  I  had  felt  and  expressed  a 
warm  sympathy!  And  even  this  notice  was  only  coldish  by 
comparison,  so  glowingly  kind  have  been  the  rest.  Your 
own  share  of  the  praise,  dearest  Mr.  Starkey,  gave  me  a  far 
higher  degree  of  pleasure  on  account  of  my  value  for  you, 

*  Henry  Chorley. 


''Atherton."  427 

and  I  am  particularly  gratified  by  your  approving  the  short- 
er stories.  I  myself  had  not  read  them  for  a  dozen  years 
until  I  saw  them  in  the  volumes,  having  been  too  ill  to  read 
the  proofs,  and  distrusted  them  so  much  that  when  I  found 
Mr.  Colburn  and  Mr.  Hurst  (in  whose  hands  both  they  and 
some  of  the  plays  were)  would  not  let  us  publish  the  one 
without  the  other,  I  undertook  "  Atherton,"  unfit  as  I  was  for 
such  an  exertion,*  in  order  to  give  some  little  value,  some 
little  body,  to  the  work.  I  am  so  glad  that  you  and  Mrs. 
Starkey  like  it !  The  portrait  is  no  more  like  Haydon's 
picture  than  it  is  like  me.  There  is  a  wood-cut  in  last  Sat- 
urday's Illustrated  News  which  is  better,  and  by  far  the  best 
of  the  many  scores  that  have  been  taken  is  a  photograph 
from  John  Lucas's  picture,  colored  by  an  eminent  miniature 
painter,  now  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Bennet,  the  picture  it- 
self being  in  America. 

You  will  like,  in  your  kindness,  to  hear  how  I  am.  These 
east  winds  have  been  horribly  against  me.  Mr.  May  has  at 
last  confessed  that  in  that  unhappy  overturn  the  spine  was 
seriously  injured,  which  accounts  at  once  for  the  total  loss 
of  muscular  power  in  the  body  and  lower  limbs,  and  for  the 
terrible  pain  of  all  the  nerves  of  the  back,  especially  those 
over  the  breast-bone  and  under  the  arms. 

God  bless  you,  dear  friend ! 

Ever  yours,  M.  R.  M. 

The  following  is  enclosed,  June  23,  1854,  to  Mr.  Starkey 
for  Miss  Jephson : 

I  am  delighted  to  hear  again  from  you,  my  beloved  Emily, 
above  all  to  receive  a  letter  so  cheerful  and  so  full  of  health, 
mental  and  bodily.  It  is  very  good  in  you  to  like  "Ather- 
ton "  so  well.  Some  of  the  warmth  in  your  praise  is  per- 
haps partiality,  but  then  I  do  not  wish  that  less.  It  is,  how- 
ever, sure  that  both  by  the  press  and  the  public  that  work 
has  been  received  with  an  enthusiasm  quite  wonderful  in 
this  war  time.     They  say  that  it  is  the  only  new  work  that 

*  "Atherton  "  has  been  called  "  Sunlight  in  Suffering," 


428  ''Athertoti" 

has  been  in  great  request  this  spring;  and  such  has  been  the 
demand  that  Mr.  Mudie  (who  keeps  a  great  circulating 
library  in  London)  told  my  publisher  that  he  had  four  hun- 
dred copies  in  circulation,  and  found  them  insufficient.  This 
is  a  real  success,  and  very  pleasant  to  hear.  Besides  this, 
the  letters  I  receive  from  the  persons  whom  I  most  wish  to 
please  (you  and  Mr.  Starkey,  my  dear  Emily,  among  the 
first)  have  given  me  a  gratification  better,  I  hope,  than  vani- 
ty, with  more  heart  in  it  and  more  thankfulness.  The  exer- 
tion, however,  certainly  did  me  much  harm,  and  was  greater 
far  than  would  be  gathered  from  the  preface  ;  since,  according 
to  my  old  theory  and  my  old  practice  that  without  pains 
there  is  no  real  good  writing,  I  think,  for  anybody,  I  am  sure 
for  me,  I  actually  wrote  almost  every  line  of  that  story  three 
times  over,  and,  although  much  disfigured  by  misprints,  since 
the  original  printer  having  failed  early  in  the  volume,  it  was 
delayed  for  three  weeks  and  then  hurried  through  the  press 
in  three  days  (again  almost  killing  me),  yet  it  owes  to  that 
care  the  appearance  of  ease  which  people  are  so  good  as  to 
like  in  it.  You,  who  take  so  niece-like  an  interest  in  my 
poor  doings,  will  like  to  know  that  the  scenery  (allowing  for 
some  little  embellishment  of  the  hall  and  park)  is  true — at 
least,  was  so  fifty  years  ago,  when  my  father,  mother,  and 
myself  went  more  than  once  to  stay  at  the  Great  Farm, 
whose  occupants  (a  Mrs.  Hunt  and  her  daughter)  were  very 
distantly  related  to  my  maternal  grandmother.  It  was  ex- 
actly the  scene  of  affluent  hospitality  which  I  have  described, 
and  Mrs.  Hunt  was  in  person  a  character  not  unlike  Mrs. 
Bell,  whilst  her  daughter,  an  elegant  woman,  bore  some  re- 
semblance to  Mrs.  Warne.  They  drove  their  close  carriage, 
and  Joseph  was  quite  a  real  person.  The  name  of  the  vil- 
lage was  Lockinge,  situated  in  the  midst  of  the  great  Berk- 
shire downs,  about  four  miles  from  Wantage,  and  quite,  I 
think,  as  beautiful  a  scene.  The  Hall  belonged  to  Mr.  Bas- 
tard, then  M.P.  for  Devonshire,  who,  residing  in  that  county, 
let  the  park  to  Mr.  Hunt;  and  I  well  remember  how  I  loved 
to  take  a  book  and  sit  in  an  old-fashioned,  gloomy  grotto 
under  a  wood -covered  bank.  The  mother  and  daughter 
are  both  dead;  her  children  have  settled  in  America.     The 


"  Atherton: 


429 


last  I  heard  of  Lockinge  was  from  the  Duke  of  Devonshire, 
who  came  to  see  me  on  his  way  home  from  a  visit  he  had 
been  paying  to  the  then  occupant  of  the  Hall — I  think  Sir 
Harry  Martin.  I  wonder  if  he  recognized  the  scenery!  I 
only  once  saw  it  in  the  summer,  when  my  father  was  on  the 
grand-jury  at  Abingdon  and  left  us  there;  but  I  was  twice 
or  three  times  there  with  him  for  the  sake  of  coursing  in  the 
early  autumn,  and  the  place  has  always  hung  on  my  mem- 
ory. The  people  are,  of  course,  creations ;  I  find  Katy  the 
general  favorite  :  some  scold  because  I  did  not  marry  her, 
but  I  hate  early  marriages,  and  wanted  to  show  a  bright, 
healthy  youthfulness,  too  busy  and  too  happy  for  the  folly 
and  vanity  of  a  premature  love;  others  say  it  should  have 
been  three  volumes,  but  then  the  secret  must  have  leaked 
out.  It  is  better  that  people  should  find  fault  with  it  as  too 
short  than  as  too  long.  You  know,  of  course,  that  it  has 
been  some  weeks  in  a  second  edition,  and  it  will  soon,  I 
suppose,  go  into  a  third.  Now,  my  dearest,  this  is  twenty 
times  more  than  I  have  either  written  or  said  to  any  one 
about  "Atherton,"  but  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know  all 
I  could  tell  you.  For  the  most  part  my  letters  are  mere 
bulletins,  for  I  have,  as  you  suspect,  gained  no  ground  this 
cold  weather.  One  day  only  I  was  wheeled  into  K.'s  bed- 
room, while  this  of  mine  was  well  dry-rubbed,  carpets  taken 
up,  and  so  forth,  but  not  wetted,  for  Dr.  May  dreads  the 
slightest  cold,  and  I  myself  feel  how  little  I  can  bear.  Peo- 
ple have  the  trick  of  coming  from  London  to  see  me  and 
returning  at  night,  but,  kind  as  it  is,  if  these  visits  come  too 
closely  (as  one  week  I  had  four)  they  upset  me  for  a  fort- 
night or  a  month.  Above  all,  if  they  stay  too  long,  for  I 
am  just  as  cheerful  and  excitable  as  ever,  and  talk  within 
an  inch  of  my  life,  or,  still  more,  if  they  arrive  too  early.  I 
ought  only  to  see  one  person  a  day  for  a  short  time;  but 
people  are  very  inconsiderate,  and  the  number  that  come 
and  that  write  would  astonish  you.  I  only  just  saved  my- 
self from  the  additional  suffering  of  bed-sores  by  adopting 
a  water-cushion  to  sit  and  lie  upon  (an  air-cushion  is  no  use 
for  that  purpose),  and  an  air-cushion  for  the  back. 

Well,  my  dear  love,  I  have  dwelt  too  long  upon  a  subject 


430  Little  Mifs  Mary. 

I  hate  to  write  upon ;  but  I  know  your  anxiety.     The  chief 
suffering  at  present,  besides  the  weakness  and  the  weariness, 
is  the  horrible  neuralgic  jar  which  runs  through  every  limb, 
often  without  any  apparent  cause,  always  when  people  at- 
tempt to  shake  hands  or  to  move  me  in  the  slightest  degree. 
The  pain  under  the  arms  is  at  present,  thank  Heaven!  better. 
For  the  rest,  people  are  exceedingly  good,  for  even  the  troub- 
lesome mean,  I  believe,  to  be  kind,  and  little  INIiss  Mary  is 
a  great  comfort  and  delight.     Your  charming  description  of 
Miss  Emily  would  almost  serve  for  her — she  is  the  bright- 
est, merriest,  happiest  creature  that  ever  existed — knowing 
fewer  words,  I  think,  than  six  months  ago.     You  know  she 
was  a  year  old  the  second  of  last  Januar)"-,  but  everybody 
takes  her  for. a  twelvemonth  older — she  is  so  tall,  so  large, 
and  so  active,  understanding  everybody,  and  making  herself 
understood  in  spite  of  her  want  of  language.     Such  a  mimic 
never  was  seen.     She  comes  to  my  door  knocking  with  her 
little  clenched  fist  every  time  she  can  escape  from  her  fa- 
ther and  mother  and  the  maid,  and  in  imitation,  we  suppose, 
of  her  brother,  folds  her  little  hands  every  night  and  says, 
" Bless  papa  and  mamma  and  poor  Ba"  the  hideous  name 
(nobody  can  guess  why)  she  will  call  me.     She  knows  all 
my  things  for  use  or  wearing,  and  is  furiously  angry  if  any- 
thing she  has  been  accustomed  to  see  in  my  room  meets  her 
eye  out  of  it.    "  Ba's,"  she  says  upon  such  occasions.    "  Poor 
Ba's,"  "My  Ba's."    In  the  same  way  she  brings  me  all  news- 
papers, letters,  flowers,  and  books,  and  would  certainly  fight 
for  the  possession  of  a  letter  especially,  which  it  is  her  great 
delight  to  deliver  with  her  own  hand.     I  suppose  she  is 
pretty,  everybody  says  so,  colored  like  certain  balsams  and 
carnations,  with  the  skin  of  the  texture  of  a  rose-leaf,  ex- 
quisite blue  eyes,  a  merry,  round  face,  a  little  figure  admira- 
bly formed  with  dimples  instead  of  joints,  and  lovely  golden 
hair  curling  round  her  white  neck,  and  two  or  three  shades 
lighter  than  her  long  eyelashes.     How  I  wish  I  could  see 
you,  my  dearest,  and  that  we  could  compare  our  pets !     Do 
contrive  hereafter  that  they  should  know  each  other.     I 
am  sure  that  you  would  like  both  K.,  who  is  so  clever,  in 
spite  of  a  certain  contempt  for  books,  and  Sam,  who,  on  the 


Neighbors  and  Friends.  43 1 

other  hand,  has  a  great  knowledge  of  them,  and,  but  for  his 
real  modesty,  would  strike  everybody  as  a  particularly  well- 
informed  person.  I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  lose  dear  Mr. 
Kingsley.  His  sweet  wife  can  only  live  at  Torquay,  so  that 
he  will  get  leave  of  absence,  and  be  backwards  and  forwards 
at  Eversley;  and  he  is  a  neighbor  to  regret.  Dear  Mr.  Crow- 
ther!  say  everything  for  me  to  him.  I  hear  a  good  deal  of 
Cheltenham,  and  am  quite  sure  that  place  of  pretension  and 
narrowness  will  not  suit  him.  Mr.  Fields  was  to  have  been 
here  in  England  this  month,  but  his  visit  is  deferred  till  the 
next,  and  I  have  some  notion  will  not  take  place  this  year. 
This  is  only  my  feeling,  for  he  says  he  is  coming.  So  say 
the  Brownings  from  Italy,  and  Mr.  Boner  from  Germany. 
The  little  Browning  boy  suffered  from  malaria  at  Rome, 
but  is,  I  think,  recovering.  John  Ruskin  has  sent  me  from 
Rouen  the  most  exquisite  photograph  of  street  and  cathe- 
dral architecture  ever  seen.  I  hear  a  great  deal  of  this  war 
from  one  and  another.  Everybody  seems  to  have  sons  or 
nephews  afloat  or  ashore.  My  young  neighbor.  Sir  Charles 
Russell,  who  is  in  the  Grenadier  Guards,  sent  us  a  most  in- 
teresting letter  the  other  day,  with  an  account  of  a  visit  to 
Abd-el-Kader  and  an  ascent  of  Mount  Olympus.  How 
strange  these  names  sound  in  correspondence!  A  friend 
of  mine  was  telling  me  last  week  that  his  cousin  had  mar- 
ried a  Greek.  "Is  he  a  merchant?"  said  I.  "No,"  replied 
he,  "he  is  a  member  for  Sparta!" 

I  have  not  written  a  letter  one  third  the  length  of  this 
these  ten  months,  dear  Emily;  but  it  must  serve  a  long 
while.     Let  dear  Mr.  Starkey  see  it.     God  bless  you ! 

Ever  yours,  M.  R.  Mitford. 

P.S. — Is  there  to  be  any  "Life"  of  Miss  Edgeworth? 
Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jeph3I)n. 

July  12,  1854. 

My  very  dear  Emily, — Since  my  last  letter  I  have  been 

much  worse,  and  although  a  little  revived  I  still  continue  so. 

The  cause  was  a  visit  from  a  favorite  friend,  Charles  Boner, 

of  whom  I  must  have  spoken  to  you.     He  came  to  England 


432  Charles  Boner. 

a  year  before  he  intended,  that  he  might  see  me  once  again, 
and  the  excitement  and  exertion  of  talking  with  him  brought 
on  such  exhaustion  and  such  a  struggle  for  breath  that  both 
'  K.  and  Sam  believed  me  dying.  Mr.  May  has  in  conse- 
quence prohibited  all  visitors,  and  has  written  himself  to  Mr. 
Harness,  who  had  talked  of  coming  for  some  weeks  to  a 
lodging  in  the  village,  not  to  come,  and  I  feel  that  he  is 
right.  He  even  stints  Lady  Russell  to  ten  minutes,  and 
wants  to  stint  her  to  five.  So,  much  as  under  other  circum- 
stances I  should  have  been  delighted  to  see  him,  it  is  better 
that  dear  Mr.  Starkey  should  not  have  come.  Charles  Boner, 
whose  book  on  chamois-shooting  is  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing works  I  know,  sent  this  spring  through  his  friend,  the 
Prince  of  Leiningen,  a  paper  on  some  improvements  in  the 
rifle  to  Prince  Albert,  who  was  much  struck  with  it ;  and,  be- 
ing now  in  London,  he  has  been  with  the  Prince,  who  was 
still  more  struck  by  what  passed  between  them,  gave  him  a 
letter  to  the  authorities  at  the  Horse  Guards,  and  sent  the 
Woolwich  people  to  request  his  presence  at  a  council  there. 
So  they  are  in  high  consultation,  and  as  Mr.  Boner  will  re- 
turn by  Paris,  he  will  probably  communicate  also  with  my 
Emperor  (he  is  an  intimate  friend  of  his  cousin,  the  Countess 
Stephanie  Tascher  de  la  Pagerie*),  whose  knowledge  of 
that  subject  is  very  great.  It  is  universally  admitted  now 
that  Louis  Napoleon's  "  History  of  Artillery "  is  the  best 
book  on  firearms.  I  can  answer  for  the  preface  as  more 
amusing  and  curious  than  anything  since  Southey's  articles 
in  the  Quarterly.  It  will  be  very  interesting  to  have  a 
graphic  report  of  such  an  interview.  He  came  by  Paris,  and 
says  the  beauty  of  the  city  and  the  contentment  of  the  peo- 
ple are  equally  striking.  He  has  not  been  there  these  six 
years,  and  says  it  is  like  magic  to  see  how  all  that  was  sordid 
and  squalid  has  vanished,  and  been  replaced  by  the  grand, 
the  beautiful,  aira  the  comfortable — the  people,  I  mean  the 
working  classes,  never  being  forgotten  for  a  moment.  It  is 
strange  how  all  the  world  has  come  round  to  the  respecting 
that  great  man — a  far  greater  than  the  first  Napoleon,  be- 

*  The  Empress  Josephine's  father  was  Tascher  de  la  Pagerie. 


Tom  Taylor.  433 

cause  rather  an  administrator  than  a  conqueror;  one  who 
strives  to  make  his  subjects  happy  rather  than  to  enlarge 
his  domains — a  just  and  noble  ambition.  Tell  dear  Mr. 
Starkey  that  I  hear  that  the  original  "  Plurality  of  Worlds  " 
is  by  Dr.  Whewell,  of  Trinity  (I  mean  the  one  that  maintains 
that  our  globe  is  the  only  one  inhabited) ;  an  answer  to  it, 
which  has  attracted  far  more  attention  here  in  England,  is 
by  Dr.  Brewster.  I  have  read  neither.  I  have  just  received, 
with  one  of  his  charming  letters,  dear  Mr.  Kingsley's  "  Edin- 
burgh Lectures,"  and  am  charmed  to  find  that  in  the  preface 
he  pays  a  noble  tribute  to  Cambridge,  where,  as  he  says,  he 
"learnt  to  learn."  It  does  honor  to  the  author  of  "Alton 
Locke"  to  offer  this  testimony  at  this  moment.  Also  I  have 
had  one  of  the  most  interesting  letters  I  ever  received,  from 
one  of  whom  I  have  lately  heard  much,  Mr.  T.  Taylor — cer- 
tainly the  highest-toned  of  all  the  "  Punch "  and  "  House- 
hold Words  "  school — a  Cambridge  scholar,  who,  to  maintain 
his  mother  and  sisters,  submitted  to  very  distasteful  literary 
toil,  even  theatrical  burlesques,  but  who  has  come  out  of  it 
unstained,  and  will  be,  I  predict,  amongst  the  most  eminent 
of  our  new  writers.  He  has  now  a  place  of  ;^8oo  a  year  as 
secretary  to  the  Board  of  Health.  I  forgot  to  tell  dear  Mr. 
Starkey  how  heartily  I  preferred  Mr.  Archer's  letters  to  Lord 
John's  in  their  recent  skirmish.  Poor  Moore  cut  a  worse 
figure  even  than  his  editor,  and  that  is  saying  much. 

And  now,  my  dear  friend,  good-night.  Miss  Mary  is  bright 
and  blooming  as  ever,  in  spite  of  four  double-teeth  just  pierc- 
ing through.  Kiss  Miss  Emily  for  me.  God  bless  them 
both  !  Ever  your  affectionate, 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson. 

July  20, 1854. 
Ah,  dearest  Emily,  "  thrown  back  "  is  not  the  word  !  You 
judge  me  by  my  letters  and  my  books.  The  head  is  merci- 
fully spared,  but  for  above  six  months  1  have  been  steadily 
growing  worse  and  worse,  and  weaker  and  weaker.  Mr. 
Boner's  visit  was  a  shake  of  the  glass,  but  every  day  the 
sands  run  lower  and  lower.     It  is  sad  to  write  so  to  you,  but 

19 


434  "  Athertoji" 

it  is  the  truth.  Champagne  and  nourishing  food  keep  me 
alive,  and  stimulating  medicine.  To-day  is  fine,  and  I  sit  by 
my  open  window  enjoying  the  balmy  air,  although  too  much 
sunk  in  the  chair  to  see  more  than  the  trees  and  the  sky, 
and  a  bit  of  distant  road,  but  still  enjoying  that.  My  roses 
are  very  beautiful,  and  I  have  many  of  the  old  moss,  which 
are  delicately  sweet;  and  common  white  pinks,  almost  like 
cloves  in  their  fragrance.  I  rejoice,  dearest,  in  your  garden. 
I  can't  help  telling  you,  or  rather  transcribing  for  you,  what 
Mr.  Fields  (his  house,  Ticknor  &  Fields,  is  the  greatest 
publishing-house  in  America)  says  of  the  reception  of"  Ather- 
ton,"  which,  owing  to  Mr.  Hurst  sending  only  part  of  the 
sheets,  has  but  just  come  out  in  the  States.  It  seems  very 
vain,  but  it  will  give  you  nearly  as  much  pleasure  as  it  does 
to  myself,  for  your  feeling  towards  me  has  always  borne  the 
character  of  family  affection. 

"  And  now  I  must  tell  you  \Yith  what  delight  I  have  read 
*Atherton,'  and  how  everybody  is  charmed  with  it.  Whittier 
wrote  me  to-day  a  note  filled  with  expressions  of  his  grati- 
tude to  you  for  writing  such  an  exquisite  story.  Every  page 
is  a  gem,  and  our  newspapers  and  periodicals  are  outvying 
each  other  in  their  words  of  praise.  I  know  of  no  book  that 
has  appeared  for  years  which  has  been  received  with  such  an 
outburst  of  applause." 

This  is  no  common  testimony  from  a  publisher. 

My  dramatic  works  are  to  appear,  they  tell  me,  immedi- 
ately. They  were  printed,  and  the  preface  to  them  was 
written,  last  summer;  but  I  can  hardly  expect  another  such 
success  as  "  Atherton  " — the  only  book  that  has  made  a  hit 
this  spring. 

Read  "  Chamois  Shooting,"  if  you  can.  It  is  full  of  interest, 
and  most  different  from  the  run  of  sporting  books  in  its  per- 
fect truth,  the  absence  of  all  exaggeration — but  indeed  the 
author  is  a  very  admirable  person. 

I  regret  not  having  known  Mr.  Starkey,  and  yet  I  do  know 
him,  and  can  quite  fancy  what  he  is  in  conversation. 

M.  R.  MiTFORD. 


Mifs  Mit ford's  Ilhiefs.  435 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Letters  from  Miss  Jephson,  W.  S.  Landor,  and  Miss  Mitford. — 
Last  Illness  and  Death  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford. 

Miss  Jephson  writes  to  Mr.  Starkey  under  date  August  2  : 

"  Dear  Miss  Mitford's  letter,  which  I  enclose,  is  still  more 
touching  than  the  last  She  seems  to  know  that  the  last 
great  change  is  fast  approaching,  and  yet  to  have  such  a 
calm  and  cheerful  mind,  thinking  of  her  friends'  pleasures, 
and  making  little  arrangements  for  a  time  when  she  will  be 
no  more.  Would  to  God  that  I  knew  more  certainly  than  I 
do  that  the  great  thing  of  all  is  not  wanting!  It  has  always 
been  a  subject  of  great  anxiety  to  me  about  her.  I  know 
that  at  one  time  she  did  not  believe  in  the  divinity  of  our 
Lord,  and  this  seems  to  me  a  most  dangerous  error.  But 
a  great  change  may  have  taken  place  in  her  opinions  since 
that  time  (for  it  was  many  years  ago),  when  she  expressed  to 
me  her  leaning  towards  the  Unitarian  creed,  for  I  think  it 
was  no  more.  When  her  father  was  in  his  last  illness,  she  read 
to  him  St.  John's  Gospel  by  preference,  and  he  of  all  others 
teaches  us  that  great  truth,  that  Christ  is  God.  You  see 
that  she  speaks  in  this  letter  of  the  comfort  that  a  good  pas- 
tor can  give." 

Enclosure  from  Mifs  Mitford. 

"Yes,  dearest  Emily,  I  have  most  beautiful  roses.  I  found 
some  of  the  old  sorts  and  brought  some  of  that  exquisite  rose 
des  quatre  saisons'^\\\c\i  smells  so  exactly  like  the  attar  of  roses, 
moss-roses,  maiden-blush,  double  Scotch,  and  many  others. 
Then  my  only  expense  was  for  thirty  of  the  very  best  stand- 
ards, some  low,  some  high.  Then  my  house  was  planted  by 
two  Hertfordshire  friends,  and  the  trees  are  now  climbing 


43^  Flowers. 

above  the  parlor  windows,  and  will  soon  cover  the  house  with 
the  very  choicest  sorts.  Then  I  have  a  rose  hedge  round 
the  front  court;  so  you  see  we  abound.  There  is  a  moss 
maiden-blush  which  in  beauty,  in  fragrance,  and  in  mossi- 
ness excels  anything  I  ever  saw.  I  don't  know  its  name,  but 
it  is  more  beautiful  than  either  the  pink  or  the  white  moss- 
rose,  fond  as  I  am  of  the  first.  I  have  also  a  white  globe 
which  is  more  beautiful  than  any  I  ever  saw,  purer,  rounder, 
more  perfect  in  every  way ;  it  was  sent  to  me  years  ago  by 
poor  Mr.  Milton,  Mrs.  Trollope's  brother.  All  the  garden- 
ers say  it  is  the  best  white  they  ever  saw.  I  have  told  Sam 
to  send  you  a  plant  of  this  rose,  and  roots  of  the  Fleur-de- 
Lis,  and  the  double  wood-anemone.  Have  you  these  pretty 
flowers  ?  I  only  wish  I  knew  how  to  make  over  to  you  my 
other  roses,  but  I  fear  they  would  not  travel.  You  must 
write  to  tell  Sam  how  to  send  flower-roots  when  the  time 
comes,  and  he  can  add  those  common  and  fragrant  white 
pinks  which  will  grow  like  a  weed.  Rare  flowers  I  have 
none,  and  my  little  pit  has  only  served  to  keep  alive  scarlet 
geraniums,  and  common  verbenas,  fuchsias,  etc.,  for  planting 
out.  Still  my  little  garden,  full  of  fruit  and  flowers  (the 
vegetables  being  kept  out  of  sight),  quite  cottage-like,  pleases 
everybody,  and  Miss  Mary  runs  about  in  it  all  the  day  long. 
After  passing  eighteen  months  with  the  reputation  of  being 
the  best  and  quietest  child  possible,  she  has  taken  to  crying 
after  her  father,  who  spoils  her  more  than  the  rest,  and  whom 
she  cannot  bear  out  of  her  sight.  I  do  hope  that  your  sweet 
Emmy  and  she  will  some  day  know  each  other.  The  other 
day  I  had  an  interesting  account  of  the  Alhambra  from  a 
friend  just  returned  from  Spain.  The  exquisite  fretted  work 
of  the  ceilings,  etc.,  has  faded  quite  white  except  in  a  very 
few  shaded  places.  Enough,  however,  of  the  colors  remains 
there  to  enable  the  patterns  to  be  made  out,  and  Government 
are  going  to  restore  these  magnificent  w-orks  to  as  nearly 
their  old  state  as  possible.  Nothing  ever  approached  their 
lightness,  delicacy,  and  beauty.  The  imitation  in  the  Crys- 
tal Palace  is  like,  they  say,  but  conveys  no  idea  of  their 
matchless  grace.  I  am  a  little  revived  by  the  sweet  summer 
air  which  breathes  around  me  through  the  open  window. 


W.  S.  Landor.  437 

You  will  like  to  hear  that  my  dear  friend  Mr.  Pearson  gives 
me  the  comfort  that  a  good  pastor  brings. 

"  Ever,  dearest  friend,  your  affectionate 

"  M.  R.  MiTFORD. 

"  I  kept  this  letter,  my  teloved  friend  (it  is  now  the  29th 
of  July,  1854),  the  rather  that  the  heats  of  last  week  and 
this  week  almost  killed  me.  At  present  we  have  real  cold 
weather  again,  which  has  revived  me.  Mr.  May  said  yester- 
day that  I  was  decidedly  better,  but  then  I  had  had  some 
sleep  after  three  nights  of  absolute  sleeplessness.  Last 
night  I  again  passed  without  closing  my  eyes,  but  (a  more 
hopeful  '  but '  than  the  last)  I  have  a  new  chair  coming, 
certainly  more  roomy,  and,  I  hope,  more  comfortable  than 
my  present.  A  day  or  two  ago  that  remarkable  man,  Mr.  Lan- 
dor, sent  me  some  verses,  the  most  beautiful  of  the  very  many 
that  have  been  addressed  to  me.  He  must  be  eighty.  They 
will  probably  appear  in  the  Examinef.  Did  I  ever  send  you 
Dr.  Parsons's  magnificent  stanzas  on  a  bust  of  Dante  ?  He 
too  has  addressed  some  to  me,  which  I  have  not  seen,  but 
which  Mr.  Fields  says  are  exquisite.  I  was  much  amused 
by  a  passage  in  one  of  Sir  C.  Russell's  letters  the  other  day 
(which  carried  me  back  to  the  days  of  Hogarth  and  Smollett 
and  the  old  caricatures  written  and  engraved)  on  our  Gallic 
neighbors.  He  says,  *  The  French  soldiers  spend  all  their 
spare  time  in  hunting  frogs.  They  continue  to  be  as  much 
eaten  as  ever  by  French  epicures,  but  only  the  thighs,  which 
are  very  small  and  tender  and  delicate,  and  are  either  taken 
as  a  fricandeau  or  a  fricassee.'  " 

The  following  letter  conveyed  the  poem  from  Walter 
Savage  Landor : 

Bath,  July  24  [no  year]. 
Dear  Miss  Mitford, — It  would  be  ingratitude  in  me, 
who  have  received  so  much  enjoyment  and  instruction  from 
your  writings,  were  I  never  to  make  an  acknowledgment 
of  it.  My  only  hesitation  in  sending  these  verses  was  occa- 
sioned by  the  fear  that,  in  an  excess  of  politeness,  you  might 


438  Verses  by  Landor. 

fancy  it  necessary  to  write  a  line  in  reply.  Pray  do  not 
think  of  it.  Your  friend  Miss  Day  will  inform  me  of  your 
health,  which  I  most  anxiously  hope  is  improving. 

Believe  me,  dear  Miss  Mitford,  yours  sincerely, 

W.  S.  Landor. 

The  following  was  the  poem  enclosed  : 

To  Mary  Russell  Mitford. 

The  hay  is  carried,  and  the  hours 
Snatch,  as  they  pass,  the  linden  flowers ; 
And  children  leap  to  pluck  a  spray 
Bent  earthward,  and  then  run  away. 
Park-keeper  !  catch  me  those  grave  thieves 
About  whose  frocks  the  fragrant  leaves, 
Sticking  and  fluttering  here  and  there. 
No  false  nor  flattering  witness  bear. 

I  never  view  such  scenes  as  these, 
In  grassy  meadows  girt  with  trees, 
But  comes  a  thought  of  her  who  now 
Sits  with  serenely  patient  brow 
Amid  deep  suff'erings  ;  none  hath  told 
More  pleasant  tales  to  young  and  old. 
Fondest  was  she  of  Father  Thames, 
But  rambled  to  Hellenic  streams  ; 

Nor  even  there  could  any  tell 
The  country's  purer  charms  so  well 
As  Mary  Mitford.  .  .  . 

Verse !  go  forth 
And  breathe  o'er  gentle  breasts  her  worth. 
Needless  the  task  ;  but  should  .she  see 
One  hearty  wish  from  you  and  me, 
A  moment's  pain  it  may  assuage, 
A  rose-leaf  on  the  couch  of  Age. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 

Miss  Jephson  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

Aug.  10, 1854. 
My  dear  IMr.  Starkey, — The  enclosed  letters  came  this 
morning.  I  have  only  omitted  some  passages  which  would 
not  interest  you.  Is  it  not  very  strange  in  Miss  Mitford  to 
take  the  part  of  Mr.  Garden  against  Miss  Arbuthnot,  the 
sister  and  friend  who  so  courageously  and  effectually  de- 


T.  W.  Parsons.  439 

fended  her?  The  "attack"  was  his,  not  theirs;  they  only 
assisted  Miss  A.  in  repulsing  them,  and  to  call  their  efforts 
in  so  good  a  cause  "vixenish  attacks"  appears  to  me  most 
unjust  censure.  If  they  had  screamed  and  fainted,  some 
people,  perhaps,  would  have  thought  them  more  feminine 
and  interesting,  but  I  do  not  think  their  brave  defenders 
would  have  felt  the  same  zeal  in  their  cause.  As  to  Mr. 
Garden's  motive,  I  think  it  may  be  easily  guessed,  when  Miss 
A.  has  so  large  a  fortune.  I  see  no  cause  to  admire  his 
conduct  in  the  fray.  His  party  was  by  far  the  strongest, 
and  yet  he  ordered  his  men  to  tire  upon  the  less  numerous 
and  unarmed  defenders  of  Miss  Arbuthnot. 

Enclosure  : 

"  I  thought  I  had  sent  you  these  noble  lines,*  dearest 
Emily  ;  you  must  give  no  copy  of  them — that  is  a  condition. 
They  are  by  very  far  the  finest  stanzas  that  ever  left  Amer- 
ica, and  the  author,  a  young  but  alrgady  celebrated  physician 
of  Boston — celebrated,  I  mean,  for  medical  skill — has  written 
a  poem  on  the  death  of  Daniel  Webster  very  nearly  as  fine. 
This  grand  poem  was  prefixed  to  a  translation  of  a  few  can- 
tos of  the  '  Inferno '  (the  translation  is  not  equal  to  these 
original  stanzas — it  would  have  been  strange  if  it  had  been  !), 
and  that  and  his  increasing  practice  prevented  his  going  on 
with  his  version.  The  monody  on  Daniel  Webster  was 
printed  on  a  detached  sheet,  and  of  course  sent  to  me,  and 
the  author  was  so  pleased  with  my  praise  of  that  poem  that 
he  sent  about  amongst  his  friends  begging  for  a  copy  of  the 
'  Dante '  to  send  me,  having  none  himself.  His  letters,  too, 
are  delightful.  He  does  not  care  for  my  prose,  but  calls 
'  Rienzi '  the  best  modern  play.  Mr.  Fields  tells  me  that  he 
has  a  volume  of  poems  in  the  press,  amongst  which  is  one 
exquisitely  beautiful,  addressed  to  me.  I  have  not  seen  it. 
Mr.  Landor's  poem  is  at  the  end  of  a  very  short  notice  of 
my  dramatic  works  in  the  last  number  of  the  Examiner.  It 
begins  with  a  very  beautiful  summer  picture,  and  is  a  most 
remarkable  production  of  a  man  turned  eighty ;  but  of  course 

*  On  "  Dante,"  by  Dr.  Parsons. 


440  Cation  Pearson. 

Dr.  Parsons's  poem  will  be  still  finer.  I  have  had  quantities 
of  such  tributes  in  my  life — two  very  fine  things — but  these, 
coming  so  late,  are  like  gleams  of  sunshine  in  my  sick-room. 
I  hope  that  my  grateful  pleasure  is  of  a  deeper  sort  than 
mere  vanity.  There  is  no  doubt  that  Dr.  Parsons  will  be 
the  great  poet  of  America  if  his  life  be  spared, 

"  1  must,  I  think,  have  spoken  to  you  of  my  beloved  friend, 
Hugh  Pearson — not  the  young  man  you  imagine,  but  the 
most  accomplished  as  well  as  the  most  amiable  person 
that  I  have  ever  known.  He  is  the  bosom  friend  of  Arthur 
Stanley,  and  sees  all  his  works  through  the  press ;  a  great 
friend  of  Alfred  Tennyson's,  one  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  Oxford 
committee,  the  youngest  man  upon  it — altogether,  a  most  dis- 
tinguished man  of  letters,  although  too  much  engrossed  by 
his  own  large  parish  (Sonning)  and  too  excellent  a  parish 
priest  to  think  of  authorship.  Unhappily,  he  is  eight  miles 
off",  but  he  gets  to  me  as  often  as  he  can.  I  always  loved 
him  better  than  any  m^  alive,  and  he  is  truly  attached  to 
me.  I  trust  dear  Mr.  Starkey  will  soon  recover;  love  to 
him.  I  am  as  when  I  wrote  last.  Do  you  know  anything 
of  Mr.  Garden  or  the  poor  young  woman  ?  Everybody  ap- 
proves the  sentence. 

"P.S. — August  5.  Since  writing  the  above  I  have  read 
Mr.  Garden's  speech,  which  is  very  discerning ;  also  his  con- 
duct in  the  fray — not  returning  the  vixenish  female  attacks 
was  manly.  What  did  he  want  of  her?  That  is  the  puzzle. 
Lady  Russell,  who  knew  the  whole  family  some  years  ago, 
says  that  the  youngest  of  them  must  be  much  turned  of 
thirty,  and  is  very  plain.  He  must  be  a  little  wrong  in  his 
head.  The  TzV/z^x,  speaking  of  him,  says  that,  'besides  his 
English  adventures,'  they  happen  to  know  of  certain  '  at- 
tempts'  (I  think,  or  'intentions,' I  am  not  sure  which)  'in 
the  land  of  romance  called  Spain.'  Gan  he  have  been  one 
of  the  admirers  of  that  enchanting  empress  who  never  danced 
with  a  man  without  turning  his  head  ?  It  would  have  been  a 
curious  descent  to  have  thought  of  her,  and  then  to  get  into 
such  a  scrape  for  Miss  Arbuthnot." 

On  the  3d  of  October  Miss  Jephson  writes  to  Mr.  Starkey: 


Sebastopol.  441 

"  I  wish  you  had  been  here  when  the  news  arrived  that 
Sebastopol  was  taken.  Poor  ^Irs.  Halloran  ran  here,  the 
paper  in  her  hand,  on  Sunday  morning  when  I  was  at 
breakfast,  saying,  'Sebastopol  is  taken!'  She  cannot  hear 
the  fate  of  her  nephew  for  some  days,  but  she  had  letters 
from  him  after  his  landing  on  the  Crimea.  He  wrote  upon 
his  shako  reversed  and  placed  on  the  sand,  and  had  lain 
two  nights  on  the  ground;  the  last  it  rained  incessantly, 
but  he  was  not  the  worse  for  it,  and  was  in  high  spirits. 
The  landing  of  that  immense  armament  on  the  shores  of  the 
Crimea  was,  he  said,  the  finest  thing  that  could  be  imag- 
ined ;  the  horses  were  thrown  overboard,  and  swam  ashore." 

Miss  Jephson  sends  a  quotation  from  a  letter  of  Miss 
Mitford  in  which  she  says :  "  I  do  really  believe  that  it  is 
owing  to  my  being  full  of  life  at  the  heart  that  I  am  still 
alive.     I  cling  to  life." 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson. 

Oct.  5, 1854. 
My  beloved  Friend, — Thank  you  for  those  texts.  They 
are  most  comfortable.  Some  are  the  more  welcome  that  I 
am  at  present  reading  exclusively  the  New  Testament,  find- 
ing something  fresh  in  the  gospels  at  every  reading.  These 
I  have  just  finished,  going  through  them  for  the  third  time 
consecutively.  William  Harness  says  that  "  Christ  is  one 
with  God."  He  adds  :  "  I  do  not  know  if  this  be  orthodox, 
but  it  is  what  I  feel,"  and  surely,  in  thinking  of  that  divine 
teaching  of  Him  who  came  "to  seek  and  to  save,"  it  is  a 
comfort  so  to  feel.  Thank  you  again,  beloved  friend !  My 
own  faith  is,  I  suspect,  not  very  orthodox.  I  believe  in  the 
whole  Christian  church,  whatever  be  the  differences  of  sect 
or  government.  How  infinitely  small  are  those  differences 
compared  with  the  great  accordance !  I  never  venture  to 
think  that  any  one  who  seeks  God  in  sincerity,  and  strives  to 
obey  his  holy  laws,  can  be  lost.  My  only  doubts  are  of  my- 
self, because  I  know  so  much  of  my  own  sins  and  my  present 
shortcomings,  and  a  little,  perhaps,  because  I  feel  myself  to 
be  so  much  overvalued.     Then  I  cling  to  life  even  whilst  I 

19* 


442  Religious  Views. 

say,  "  His  will  be  done  !"  and  pray  for  a  cheerful  submission. 
Well,  at  all  events,  I  am  hopeful  for  others. 

William  Harness  says  he  wishes  there  were  a  few  men 
like  Hugh  Pearson  in  Ireland,  for  that  from  what  he  sees 
of  the  clergy  he  thinks  all  their  religion  is  merged  in  a  de- 
sire to  proselytize.  He  is  in  Dublin  now,  where  Captain 
Harness  has  been  sent  on  some  important  government 
mission.  Mrs.  Hope,  though  a  Frenchwoman,  is  a  devout 
and  steady  Protestant,  niece  of  the  celebrated  physician, 
Dr.  Pichard,  and  her  husband  has  none  of  his  father's  scep- 
ticism or  his  mother's  indifference.  William  Harness  him- 
self has  neither  Catholic  nor  Puseyite  tendencies — only  it 
is  a  large  and  liberal  mind  like  Bishop  Stanley's,  believing 
good  men  and  good  Christians  may  exist  amongst  Papists, 
and  will  be  as  safe  there  as  if  they  were  Protestants.  For 
my  own  part,  I  have  seen  such  misery  follow  from  distrusting 
a  settled  faith,  that  I  should  hesitate  from  converting  any  one 
from  Papistry  to  Protestantism  for  fear  of  the  injury  done  to 
the  mind  by  such  a  demolition  of  old  associations.  Dryden 
somewhere  says,  not  in  these  words,  but  to  this  effect,  "  that 
the  soul  is  like  a  bird  at  roost,  which,  plucked  violently  from 
its  branch,  flutters  here  and  there,  and  refuses  to  settle 
again."  By  the  way,  do  you  know  Arthur  Stanley's  life  of 
his  father?  I  think  that,  if  I  were  compelled  to  choose  be- 
tween the  two,  I  should  prefer  that  life  even  to  the  life  of 
Dr.  Arnold,  and  the  good  bishop  himself  was  charming.  I 
see  plenty  of  letters  from  the  landing-place.  Sir  Charles  Rus- 
sell being  a  most  attentive  and  copious  correspondent,  and 
the  mothers,  sisters,  and  wives  of  many  of  his  brother-officers 
interchanging  letters  with  Lady  Russell  (indeed,  there  is  a 
whole  network  of  cousinships  and  intermarriages),  which 
letters  she  always  brings  to  me.  They  show  a  good  deal 
more  of  depression  and  anxiety  (I  am  speaking  now  of 
their  general  tone  ever  since  they  have  been  in  Turkey  and 
its  dependencies)  than  you  would  expect  from  thoughtless, 
gay  young  men.  I  suppose  the  cause  of  this  is  the  long 
peace,  which  has  prevented  their  becoming  accustomed  to 
danger.  Also  I  am  sorry  to  say  there  is  a  most  affectionate 
chorus  of  regrets  for  the  comforts  and  accommodations  of 


Crimeatt  War.  443 

English  life.  Think  of  people  bemoaning  and  bepitying 
themselves  because  on  the  night  of  landing  they  were  forced 
to  sup  on  bread  and  pork,  and  brandy-and-water !  After  all, 
I  have  not  a  doubt  but  these  fine  guardsmen  when  once  in 
front  of  the  enemy  fought  bravely.  At  present  I  am  forced 
to  play  the  comforter  to  my  beloved  friend,  Lady  Russell, 
who  was  yesterday,  and  has  been  every  day  since  the  news 
of  the  first  battle  came, "  like  Niobe — all  tears."  Now  there 
is  terrible  anxiety  caused  by  the  interval  between  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  fight  and  the  list  of  the  killed  and 
wounded.  By  the  way,  nothing  done  by  our  ministry  has 
pleased  me  so  well  as  the  intention  of  the  Duke  of  New- 
castle to  publish  the  names  of  the  common  soldiers  as  well 
as  the  officers.  No  doubt  it  is  borrowed  from  or  suggested 
by  Louis  Napoleon.  It  is  thoroughly  in  his  way,  and  unlike 
stiff  puppets  of  routine.  I  have  not  seen  poor  Lady  Russell 
to-day,  and  am  expecting  Hugh  Pearson.  I  am  often  hope- 
ful for  myself;  it  is  only  by  fits  that  I  despond. 

Ever  yours,  M.  R.  Mitford. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

Nov.  10, 1854. 
My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — I  don't  know  anything  on  your 
side  the  Channel  that  would  give  me  greater  pleasure  than 
your  kind  approbation  of  my  plays.  When  once  one  has 
tasted  one's  fill  of  praise,  one  becomes  dainty  therein,  and 
cares  for  it  only  according  to  the  estimate  in  which  one 
holds  the  praiser.  Vain  as  it  seems  to  say  so,  that  has  been 
long  my  case,  and  would  probably  have  been  so  (or,  rather, 
perhaps  is  so)  without  the  conceited  clause.  Of  course  the 
public  recognition  is  a  pleasure,  but  that  derived  from  indi- 
vidual approbation  would  be  of  very  little  worth  if  it  were 
not  backed  up  by  the  talent  and  taste  of  the  individual  him- 
self. "Rienzi"  had  its  full  share  of  applause  when  acted, 
although  Mr.  Young  vulgarized  it  as  much  as  possible,  never 
speaking  a  line  as  it  was  written,  and  once  at  Newcastle 
transposing  a  whole  scene — that  is,  he  spoke  one  scene  the 
wrong  while  his  fellow-actors  were  speaking  the  other  the 
right.     Although  an  enormous  Mrs.  Faucitt  and  a   long, 


444  Dramatic  Works. 

reed-like  girl,  Miss  Phillips,  contended  for  weakness  and  stu- 
pidity in  Lady  Colonna  and  Claudia,  yet  such  was  the  power 
of  the  play  that  it  crammed  Drury  Lane  Theatre  upwards 
of  a  hundred  nights  during  the  two  years  that  Mr.  Young 
remained  on  the  stage,  and  gave  me  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
the  pit  stop  the  applause  of  the  boxes  that  they  might  not 
lose  a  word  that  the  actors  spoke.  In  a  somewhat  slighter 
degree  all  my  tragedies  had  this  sort  of  success,  being  all  of 
them,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word,  acting  plays,  plays  of 
whose  effect  you  cannot  judge  until  you  see  them  upon  the 
stage.  But  they  require  great  actors  and  actresses,  who 
have  at  least  truth  and  feeling.  You  will  now  understand 
why  the  three  new  ones,  "Gaston,"  "Inez,"  and  "Otto," 
being  literally  impounded  at  Mr.  Colburn's,  he  having  in  his 
hands  the  only  copies  in  existence — by  copies  I  mean  the 
only  MS. — I  was  induced,  in  order  to  get  them  properly 
brought  out,  to  permit  the  stories  that  followed  "  Atherton  "  to 
be  collected  and  published,  and  finally,  in  order  to  give  a  lit- 
tle body  to  the  prose  work  (as  people  say  of  wine),  to  write 
"  Atherton  "  itself.  Even  the  plays  that  were  printed  were  as 
full  of  errata  as  of  lines,  having  been  finally  reprinted  by  a 
man  of  the  name  of  Cumberland,  after  the  actors,  copying 
faithfully  all  their  blunders,  so  that  seventeen  editions  (each 
charged  at  3J.  dd.)  of  "  Rienzi "  went  forth  to  the  world 
after  Mr,  Young's  version.  Really  one  is  very  glad  that 
such  copies  should  be  lost.  Now  there  are  two  volumes 
that  will  take  their  place  with  their  elders  and  betters,  Mas- 
singer  and  company,  in  great  public  and  private  libraries 
(they  are  selling  in  that  way  slowly  and  gradually,  but 
steadily  and  well),  and  stand  a  chance  of  representation,  if 
ever  there  be  again  an  English  theatre,  which  will  inevitably 
happen  if  ever  there  be  again  either  a  good  actress  or  a 
great  actor.*  Of  this  there  is  a  better  chance  since  Mac- 
ready  has  left  the  stage,  and  his  most  offensive  mannerism 
will  die  away.  One  great  artist  like  John  Kemble,  one  man 
of  genius  like  Kean,  one  woman  of  sensibility  and  power, 

*  Miss  Mitford's  surmise  proved  correct  to  some  extent,  for  "  Rienzi " 
has  lately  been  reproduced  at  Her  Majesty's  Opera-house. 


''Atherton"  445 

and  the  theatre  would  revive  under  their  impulse.  In  the 
meanwhile,  every  week  (I  had  well-nigh  said  every  day) 
brings  a  letter  from  some  one  whom  I  most  wished  to 
please :  yourself,  or  John  Ruskin,  or  him  of  the  "  Dante 
verses,"  Dr.  Parsons ;  preferring  my  tragedies  to  my  other 
works,  and  I  am  well  content  to  have  made  a  large  sacrifice 
in  money  (for  I  could  have  had  double  what  I  did  receive  for 
my  last  prose  work,  if  not  clogged  with  the  condition  of 
producing  the  dramatic  works  in  the  most  solid  form),  even 
to  have  injured  my  health,  by  the  writing  "  Atherton  "  when 
so  unfit  for  exertion,  rather  than  "  die  and  leave  no  sign"  of 
the  plays  which  alone  gave  me  pleasure  in  the  conception 
and  realization.  Forgive  all  this  egotism,  but  you  pulled 
the  string,  and  must  submit  to  receive  the  shower-bath. 
One  other  thing  I  cannot  help  telling  you.  Such  is  the 
success  of  "Atherton"  in  America  that  they  have  stereo- 
typed the  work — a  very  rare  and  a  very  true  test  of  sale. 
Also  they  have  made  an  American  engraving  of  John  Lu- 
cas's portrait,  taken  three  years  ago,  which  is  admirable  for 
likeness  and  for  character.  In  spite  of  which,  a  friend  of 
mine  was  to  send  down  an  artist,  a  stranger,  to  take  my  por- 
trait now!  for,  reduced  to  skin  and  bone,  the  features  all 
sharpened,  but  the  life  remaining,  and  perhaps  increased  by 
the  contrast,  she  wants  it  perpetuated.  It  would  have  killed 
me  as  certain  as  a  cannon-ball,  for  it  was  evidently  an  oil- 
painting,  not  a  drawing.  He  inquired  about  lodgings ;  and 
my  hold  on  life  is  as  fragile  as  that  of  a  November  leaf  to 
an  elm-tree.  But  people  who  talk  to  me  for  half  an  hour 
are  as  much  deceived  as  you  who  read  my  letters,  and  take 
the  life  of  mind  for  life  of  body.  Medical  men  and  clergy- 
men, who  know  well  the  physical  symptoms  of  decay,  are 
astonished  at  me,  and  go  away  wondering.  To  me  it  seems 
that  there  must  be  a  good  deal  of  giving-way  in  those  per- 
sons who  put  on  constant  outward  signs  of  languishing — a 
sort  of  perpetual  whine,  mental  and  bodily.  It  is  quite  as 
easy  to  be  cheerful  as  to  assume  a  dismal  sort  of  patience, 
and  very  much  better  for  all  parties,  the  sick  and  the  v/ell. 
In  good  part,  this  is  no  doubt  a  question  of  temperament, 
and  Mr.  May  says  I  kill  myself  by  over-excitement  and  over- 


44^  Increase  of  Pensio7i. 

exertion.  Well,  better  that  the  sword  should  wear  the  scab- 
bard than  it  should  rust  itself  out.  Still,  dear  friend,  I  fear 
you  will  be  a  false  prophet ;  there  is  no  real  change,  and 
for  ten  days,  in  consequence  of  the  thoughtlessness  and 
selfishness  of  others,  I  fell  back  utterly.  Two  days  ago  I 
rallied  again,  and  I  am  giving  you  the  benefit  of  my  first 
good  spirits.  I  now  write  two  or  three  confidential  lines. 
In  case  dear  Emily  should  have  told  you  of  an  application, 
volunteered,  to  the  Queen  for  an  increase  of  pension  by  my 
kind  neighbor,  the  Dean  of  Windsor,  and  of  the  result,  re- 
member that  it  is  a  profound  secret.  Her  Majesty  would  be 
much  displeased  and  I  much  pained,  if  it  were  mentioned, 
more  especially  if  it  got  into  the  papers.  Even  Captain 
and  Miss  Harness  do  not  know  it,  though  I  thought  it  due 
to  dear  Emily's  long  friendship  to  acquaint  her.  I  do  not 
myself  yet  know  the  final  result — the  immediate  effect  was 
a  cheque  on  Coutts  for  ;^5o.  It  was  not  I  who  originated 
the  application,  but  my  kind  neighbor,  Mr.  Wellesle}',  and 
he  and  her  Majesty  are  most  earnest  in  their  desire  that  it 
should  be  strictly  private.  It  is  this  terrible  illness  which 
renders  another  servant  necessary,  and  doubles  almost  every 
expense,  which  alone  could  make  such  assistance  needful. 
But  even  the  visitors  who  come  to  inquire  from  great  dis- 
tances, and  many  of  them,  under  one  name  or  other,  take 
dinner,  increase  the  expenditure  of  my  little  household  more 
than  would  be  believed ;  our  postage-stamps  average  more 
than  a  shilling  a  day. 

Thank  you  and  dear  Mrs.  Starkey  for  your  great  kindness 
respecting  my  dear  friends  the  Harnesses.  I  take  for 
granted  that  Captain  Harness  is  a  superior  man,  since  all 
governments  apply  to  him  in  their  troubles.  I  also  take  for 
granted  that  he  has  not  the  social  charm  of  his  delightful 
brother,  or  I  should  have  heard  of  it.  But  then,  very  few 
have.  He  passed  almost  all  his  time  at  Blaney  Castle  when 
in  Ireland,  Mr.  Hope's.  Some  day  or  other  you  will  know 
William  Harness,  and  you  will  be  friends.  Besides  his  varied 
accomplishments,  and  his  admirable  goodness  and  kindness, 
he  has  all  sorts  of  amusing  peculiarities.  With  a  temper 
never  known  to  fail,  an  indulgence  the  largest,  a  tenderness 


Crimean  War.  447 

as  of  a  woman,  he  has  the  habit  pf  talking  like  a  cynic ;  and 
with  more  learning,  ancient  and  modern,  and  a  wider  grasp 
of  literature  than  almost  any  one  I  know,  professes  to  read 
nothing  and  care  for  nothing  but  "  Shakespeare  and  the 
Bible."  He  is  the  finest  reader  of  both  that  I  ever  heard. 
His  preaching,  which  has  been  so  much  admired,  is  too 
rapid,  but  his  reading  the  prayers  is  perfection.  The  best 
parish  priest  in  London,  and  the  truest  Christian.  There  is 
nobody  like  him.  Just  hear  his  sister  upon  that  chapter. 
Thank  you,  and  thank  dear  Mrs.  Starkey,  for  your  kind  in- 
tention of  calling  there.     I  fear  the  young  niece  is  very  ill. 

Ah !  this  war !  My  friend,  Lady  Russell,  who  comes  to 
me  every  day,  will  die  of  it.  Her  eldest  son,  the  stay  of  the 
family,  is  a  captain  in  the  Grenadier  Guards,  and  the  poor 
mother  is  ten  years  older  since  the  battle  of  the  Alma.  She 
shows  me  all  Sir  Charles's  letters.  I  heard  to-day  from  an- 
other friend,  whose  first  cousin.  Sir  Charles  Hamilton,  led 
the  Fusileers  up  the  heights.  He  was  sent  home  for  promo- 
tion ;  lost  two  horses,  shot  under  him  ;  will  have  to  be  sent 
back  again,  and  is  half  ruined  by  the  expense.  The  French 
manage  things  better.  A  charming  countrywoman  of  yours, 
Sir  George  Shee's  sister,  wrote  me  yesterday  an  amusing 
story.  A  French  soldier,  mortally  wounded,  asked  the  priest 
if  Sebastopol  was  taken,  because,  said  he, "  I  should  like  to 
tell  Marshal  St.  Arnaud." 

God  bless  you !     This  is  my  ninth  letter. 

Ever  faithfully  yours,  M.  R.  Mitford. 

Miss  Jephson  to  Digby  Starkey,  Esq. 

Nov.  9(1854?). 

My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — Perhaps  you  and  Miss  Mitford 
have  been  writing  to  each  other  all  this  time.  I  had  a  very 
long  letter  from  her,  dated  6th  of  October.  A  great  part  of 
it  would  not,  I  think,  interest  you  particularly,  so  I  will  only 
transcribe  what  relates  to  Mrs.  Opie.     She  says : 

"  I  knew  her  as  a  Quakeress,  and  as  the  gayest  and  pleas- 
antest  member  of  the  pleasantest  and  most  intelligent  so- 
ciety in  London.  Unluckily,  as  a  Norwich  woman,  she  was 
thrown  among  the  Gurneys,  and  took  a  fancy  to  Joseph 


448  Mrs.  Opie. 

John,  who,  after  she  had  very  literally  set  her  Quaker's  cap 
at  him,  married  a  pretty  girl  of  seventeen.  She  had  been 
previously  engaged  to  Lord  Herbert  Stewart  —  a  match 
which  had  gone  off,  because  in  that  age,  when  broughams 
and  pages  were  not,  they  could  not  muster  money  enough 
for  such  an  establishment  as  their  wants  required  in  married 
people,  so  she  remained  the  artist's  widow,  yearning  ever 
after  the  Quakerly  proselytism  for  her  old  pleasant  society, 
and  certainly  attending  the  May  meetings  that  she  might 
creep  into  more  parties  under  their  cover.  I  myself  have  a 
pleasant  proof  of  this  hankering:  a  visiting-card  on  which  is 
engraved  the  plain  name,  Amelia  Opie,  encircled  by  an  em- 
bossed wreath  of  roses.  Now  the  book  should  have  taken 
this  tone,  or  rather,  as  in  the  Quaker  part  of  her  life,  there 
was  nothing  to  tell ;  that  should  have  been  all  rose-color, 
whereas  it  is  all  drab — not  one  of  the  pleasant  recollections, 
of  which  (except  Mr.  Rogers)  she  is  the  last  who  can  give 
authentic  testimony.  Think  of  a  correspondent  of  Mrs. 
Inchbald,  and  a  flirt  of  Godwin  and  Holcroft's  ;  think  of  all 
that  is  buried  under  antislavery  societies  and  Joseph  Lan- 
caster's schools  !  If  the  Quakers  demanded  a  Life  to  them- 
selves, why  not  make  over  the  materials  to  a  literary  friend 
and  have  two  ?" 

Mr.  R.  Bennett  (Mrs.  Halloran's  nephew)  was  wounded  at 
the  battle  of  Inkerman  (a  ball  passed  through  his  leg,  leav- 
ing the  bone  uninjured),  so  he  is  sent  to  Scutari,  and  thus 
perhaps  his  life  will  be  saved,  for  he  will  escape  the  assault, 
and  probably  some  battles.  His  colonel  and  his  friend, 
Colonel  Swyny,  were  killed  by  his  side.  He  says,  "At  one 
time  I  thought  the  Russians  would  have  turned  our  position, 
and  that  all  would  have  been  lost.  They  had  opened  a 
tremendous  fire  of  artillery  on  us,  and  under  it  masses  of 
their  infantry  were  advancing;  at  this  moment  we  were  or- 
dered to  retire,  and  thus  were  giving  up  our  position  on  the 
heights.  It  was  evident  something  decided  must  be  done, 
or  the  enemy  would  be  in  the  camp  of  the  second  division. 
Colonel  Swyny  (whether  by  order  of  the  brigadier  or  not,  I 
cannot  say)  ordered  the  63d  to  halt  and  front,  and  advanced 
to  meet  the  enemy.    The  regiment  obeyed,  and  immediately 


Ctimean  War.  449 

came  to  the  charge,  rushed  over  the  crown  of  the  hill,  and 
sent  the  Russians,  in  awful  confusion,  into  the  valley  below. 
Every  man  then  kept  up  fire  as  long  as  a  round  of  ball  or 
cartridge  lasted,  and,  when  all  was  expended,  they  followed  it 
up  with  stones" 

Mrs.  Halloran  is  come,  and  I  shall  be  too  late  for  the  post 
if  I  say  more.  Ever  your  affectionate  sister, 

E.  Jephson. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Miss  Jephson. 

Nov.  28, 1854. 

I  thank  you  very  much,  dear  Emily,  for  your  double  kind- 
ness— the  flower  seeds  and  Mrs.  Starkey's  attention  to  my 
friends.  They  seem  absorbed  by  the  illness  of  the  poor  girl. 
Her  mother  died  young,  which  increases  the  anxiety.  William 
Harness  assures  me  that  they  are  very  sensible  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Starkey's  goodness,  and  were  much  delighted  with  both. 
They  have  in  common  the  always  having  kept  the  very  best 
company,  so  that,  meeting  on  that  table- land,  all  parties 
would  be  equally  pleasant  to  deal  with.  I  feel  this  kindness 
of  your  dear  sister  and  my  charming  correspondent  as  if  it 
were  addressed  personally  to  myself.     Tell  them  so. 

As  yet,  dear  friend,  I  have  escaped  cold.  Of  course  the 
fire  is  kept  up  night  and  day.  Sir  Charles  was  safe  up  to 
the  last  account.  The  badness  of  the  generals,  the  insuffi- 
ciency of  the  hospitals,  and  especially  the  want  of  surgeons, 
double  the  danger.  We  have  nothing  for  us  but  the  bravery 
of  our  English,  French,  and  Turkish  (for  I  do  not  join  in  the 
cry  against  those  poor  Turks,  who  could  not  have  saved  the 
batteries,  and  would  only  have  been  butchered  uselessly  had 
they  stayed),  nothing  but  our  common  bravery,  the  certainty 
that  Louis  Napoleon  will  send  all  the  men  possible  (of  course 
this  English  government  will  not),  and  the  goodness  of  our 
cause.  I  dare  not,  therefore,  claim  the  protection  of  Provi- 
dence, for  it  is  amongst  his  mysteries  that  national  success 
does  not  always  go  with  the  righteous  cause.  Finally,  no 
doubt,  the  scales  are  held  even,  but  he  judges  with  a  clearer 
sight,  and  often  bides  his  time.  What  a  mystery  war  is,  look 
at  it  as  we  may !    I  have  lost  acquaintances  in  these  battles, 


450  Tolerance'. 

but  as  yet  no  friend.    Amongst  the  young  men  whom  I  knew 
was  Mr.  John  Wheble,  the  Catholic  priest — not  a  convert, 
but  belonging  to  an  old  race  of  English  Catholics.     He  left 
much  to  take  that  dangerous  duty ;  a  slight,  small,  delicate 
young  man,  whose  fortune  was  not  less  than  ;^3o,ooo,  weak 
of  body,  but  strong  of  heart,  and  sure  to  die  if  stricken  with 
illness,  because  sure  not  to  spare  himself.     He  belongs  to 
this  neighborhood,  and  was  quite  as  much  beloved  by  Prot- 
estants as  by  Roman  Catholics ;  indeed,  in  his  charities — 
and  all  his  fortune  was  spent  in  charities — he  made  no  sort 
of  difference.     I,  who  firmly  believe  that  every  one  who  sin- 
cerely tries  to  follow  the  great  rule  of  love  which  we  find  in 
the  Gospel  may  find  safety  in  that  great  sacrifice,  whatever 
be  his  creed  as  to  minor  points,  always  rejoice  to  find  such 
an  example  as  that  of  poor  John  Wheble.    I  believe  that  his 
tolerance  was  constant  and  sincere.    I  know  that  dear  Lady 
Russell's  is  so.   Whatever  be  the  theory  of  the  Roman  Cath- 
olic faith,  happy  they  whose  large-hearted  tolerance  has  room 
for  all !     Surely  St.  Paul,  in  that  passage  on  charity  which, 
next  to  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  seems  to  me  the  most 
beautiful  ever  written,  inculcates  such  doctrine  !    I  have  been 
thinking  of  these  things,  because  I  have  been  reading  a  novel 
called  "  Philip  Lancaster,"  which  a  young  friend  of  mine  has 
just  inscribed  to  me.     I  don't  know  if  I  have  spoken  to  you 
of  Maria  Norris — have  I  ?     Her  father,  a  very  clever  man,  is 
a  great  paper-manufacturer,  radical,  and  dissenter,  just  now 
one  of  the  candidates  for  Abingdon.    The  daughter  is  a  most 
able  person,  from  nineteen  to  twenty-two,  and  her  book,  full 
of  every  sort  of  artistic  fault,  careless  beyond  all  description, 
and  with  so  many  repetitions  that  she  might  make  three 
volumes  into  two  by  the  mere  process  of  striking  out  what 
she  has  said  twice  over,  is  yet  as  full  of  promise  as  any  work 
that  has  come  out  this  year.    So  few  dissenters  write,  or  even 
read,  novels,  that  a  bold,  uncompromising,  candid,  impartial 
book,  which  shows  them  as  they  are,  faults,  merits,  and  all, 
making  fierce  onslaughts  upon  their  bigotry  and  intolerance, 
just  as  she  does  on  High  Church  or  Low  Church,  must  needs 
be  original  and  racy,  and  by  taking  for  the  scene  of  her  story 
a  real  place  (for  fictitious  scenery  never  looks  true)  she  has 


Rohins.  451 

added  wonderfully  to  the  local  power.  If  you  meet  with  it, 
read  it.  There  is  much  to  blame — indeed,  artistically  speak- 
ing, almost  everything — but  it  is  resolutely  true  to  her  own 
impression,  large-hearted,  large-minded,  charitable,  eloquent, 
and  bold,  with  strong,  sterling  English  sense  in  every  page. 
Still,  it  will  affront  all  parties,  and  stand  a  good  chance,  I 
should  think,  of  costing  her  father  his  election. 

Also  I  have  been  reading  the  feuilletons  of  the  Fresse, 
which  contain  the  memoirs  of  Madame  Sand.  There  is  an 
exquisite  bird-story,  she  being  one  of  those  who  have  the 
power  of  taming  birds.  This  interests  me  much  just  now, 
for  I  told  you,  I  think,  my  dear,  of  the  robin  that  tapped  at 
my  window,  and  how  we  kept  for  him  a  tray  full  of  bread- 
crumbs, to  which  he  has  now  brought  his  kinsfolk  and  friends. 
He  peeps  in  at  the  window  when  he  has  done  his  meal,  and 
seems  to  like  looking  at  me  almost  as  well  as  I  like  to  look 
at  him.  Besides  this,  the  letters  between  George  Sand's 
father  and  his —     yi'he  rest  is  wanting^ 

The  following  extracts  were  written  by  Miss  Mitford  to- 
wards the  end  of  her  life,  and  were  given  by  Mr.  Bennoch  to 
Mr.  S.  C.  Hall : 

To  a  Friend. 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  ever  read  a  finer  or  truer  sentiment 
than  that  passage  in  which  you  speak  of  'giving  first.' 
There  is  nothing  so  certain  as  that  where  we  give  what  is 
of  most  value,  that  is,  kindness,  we  are  pretty  sure  to  have 
it  returned — ay,  very  often  with  compound  interest.  It  is 
the  unloving  who  go  through  the  world  unloved,  and  then 
they  speak  of  life  as  they  have  found  it.  You,  my  dear  friend, 
are  of  a  different  stamp,  and  speak  of  the  world  as  you  have 
made  it.  For  my  own  part,  I  can  truly  say  that  my  whole 
life  would  be  too  short  to  repay  the  twentieth  part  of  the 
kindness  that  has  come  to  me  unsought.  My  only  part  be- 
ing to  receive  and  to  love  again — poor  payment ;  but  yet 
such  as  spirits  like  yours  accept  in  full." 

"  How  you  spoil  me,  my  very  dear  friend !  Bodily  by 
grapes  and  all  sorts  of  dainties,  mentally  by  liking  my  poor 


452  Castle  Blaney. 

notes.  The  French  have  a  famous  book,  '  A  Journey  Round 
my  Room ;'  but  I  cannot  travel  even  so  far  as  M.  de  Mais- 
tre :  from  the  fire  to  the  window  is  my  longest  ride,  or  rather 
my  longest  drive,  and  the  most  important  event  is  the  arri- 
val of  a  fresh  covey  of  robins  and  the  emptying  their  dish 
of  crumbs.  "We  may  all  find  pleasure  if  we  choose  to  seek 
and  to  accept  it — ay,  and  we  may  all  give  pleasure  after  our 
kind,  even  as  the  robins  do  by  a  cheerful  taking.  At  that, 
dearest  friend,  I  am  ready  enough,  as  you  know  to  your  cost, 
and  I  thank  you  for  your  intended  present  of  grapes  very 
heartily.  I  never  thought  to  see  that  most  rich  and  grace- 
ful of  all  fruit  again.     But,  as  I  said  before,  you  spoil  me." 

Miss  Jephson  to  Mr.  Starkey. 

Dec.  29, 1854. 

My  dear  Mr.  Starkey, — Many  thanks  for  your  kind  and 
good  wishes  for  me.  I  rejoice  to  hear  that  Emily  is  quite 
well,  and  Edgeworth,  too,  recovered.  The  Mr.  Hope  who 
has  purchased  the  Castle  Blaney  property  is  a  son  of  "An- 
astasius  "  Hope.  I  will  transcribe  Miss  Mitford's  letter,  the 
part  of  it  which  relates  to  the  Hopes : 

"Dear  William  Harness  is  at  Blaney  Castle  with  Mr. 
Hope,  who  has  purchased  that  beautiful  and  magnificent 
demesne,  nearly  all  Castle  Blaney,  eighteen  thousand  acres 
round  it,  and  a  fine  house,  magnificently  situated.  It  stands 
(William  says)  on  a  precipitous  wooded  bank,  looking  down 
upon  a  beautiful  lake  of  one  thousand  acres,  with  two  or 
three  picturesque  islands,  and  finely  wooded  and  varied 
shores ;  all  this,  and  the  opposite  woods  and  hills,  seen  from 
the  hall  door  and  from  the  windows  of  the  principal  rooms. 
Mr.  Hope's  clear  income  from  English  landed  property  is 
;^8o,ooo  per  annum,  besides  immense  sums  in  capital 
and  in  collections  of  every  sort.  Two  separate  collections 
of  pictures,  one  Italian,  the  other  Dutch  and  Flemish,  almost 
unmatched  as  belonging  to  a  private  man.  William  says 
that  he  has  made  this  purchase  chiefly  to  obtain  a  larger 
sphere  of  usefulness,  adding, '  and  a  little,  perhaps,  to  show 
his  administrative  talent  in  the  government  of  a  neglected 
and  improvable  Irish  estate.     He  will  do  immense  things 


Mr.  Hope.  453 

for  the  people,  if  they  will  lend  themselves  to  his  plans.  It 
is  not  so  much  want  of  principle  that  makes  them  so  diflS- 
cult  to  deal  with,'  pursues  William, '  as  a  sort  of  caprice  on 
which  there  is  no  calculating,  and  for  which  it  is  impossible 
to  detect  any  sort  of  reason.'  I  don't  think  William  likes 
the  people  so  well  on  this  second  visit  as  he  did  on  the  first ; 
he  has  been  in  Dublin  with  his  brother,  sent  by  government 
on  some  mission  (Captain  Harness  is  a  most  distinguished 
engineer),  and  went  to  Donnybrook  Fair — the  dullest  fair, 
he  declares,  that  he  ever  saw.  He  makes  one  observation 
that  is  striking,  that  '  whilst  the  children,  mostly  ugly,  have 
yet  an  expression  of  fun  which  would  do  honor  to  Puck,  the 
old  people,  and  even  the  middle-aged,  are  the  saddest-look- 
ing race  he  ever  beheld.'     Is  this  true? 

"Mr.  Hope  does  everything  with  a  magnificent  largeness 
and  liberality;  some  day  or  other  I  will  tell  you  of  the  ar- 
rangements at  the  Deepdene,  where  every  guest  has  a  suite 
of  rooms — five  for  a  married  couple,  bed-chambers,  chambers 
for  the  lady's-maid  and  the  valet,  and  a  sitting-room.  It  is 
at  everybody's  option  to  breakfast  down  stairs  or  up,  the 
luncheon  assembling  the  party  at  two  o'clock.  Single  visi- 
tors have  three  rooms — a  bed-room  for  themselves  and  their 
personal  servant,  and  the  never-forgotten  sitting-room,  full 
of  books,  French,  German,  and  English,  drawing  materials, 
and  music,  with  (I  believe)  a  piano.  I  am  afraid  to  tell  you 
how  many  of  these  suites  of  apartments  there  are ;  the  books 
are  the  newest  and  the  best.  You  know  that  it  is  the  very 
temple  of  art ;  but  the  master's  conversation  is  the  finest 
thing  in  it.  He  is  the  eldest  son  of  the  author  of  *  Anasta- 
sius,'  a  most  active  man  of  forty;  he  gives  the  highest 
wages,  is  princely  in  his  housekeeping  and  in  everything  he 
does ;  but,  like  his  father,  keeps  his  own  accounts,  and  won't 
be  cheated.     It's  a  mind  like  Napoleon's." 

Now  I  think  that  this  is  all  I  can  find  in  Miss  Mitford's 
letters  about  the  Hopes.  Mr.  Harness  is  one  of  Charles 
Kemble's  executors.  I  had  a  letter  from  Miss  Mitford  a 
few  days  ago  dated  December  22.  She  says:  "Last  Satur- 
day, my  sixty-eighth  birthday,  began  brightly,  but  ended  in 
one  of  those  frightful  headaches  which  leave  me  prostrated 


454  Ki7idnefs  of  Friends. 

for  ten  days.     I  am  now  getting  very  slowly  and  gradually 
better,  but  I  never  quite  regain  the  strength  I  lose." 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  a  letter  addressed  to 
Mrs.  Crowther,  and  copied  by  Miss  Jephson  for  Mr.  Starkey. 
The  date  is  January  i,  1855  : 

"  The  longer  I  live  the  more  I  see  that  kindness,  even  al- 
though, as  in  my  case,  it  has  often  been  little  more  than  kind 
intentions,  is  sure  to  be  repaid,  if  not  by  the  intended  objects, 
by  other  persons.  For  my  own  part,  the  goodness  shown  to 
nie  often  draws  tears  into  my  e3'es.  People  whom  all  the 
world  knows,  and,  yet  more,  people  of  whom  I  have  never 
heard,  write  to  me,  send  to  me  whatever  they  think  I  shall 
like,  call  at  my  door  (and,  after  getting  to  Reading  by  the 
Great  Western,  there  are  six  miles  out  and  back  of  fly-car- 
riage), come  at  any  hour  that  I  may  appoint,  if  I  be  well 
enough  to  see  them,  and  never  take  offence  at  a  refusal. 
There  is  a  reality  about  this  when  it  has  lasted  above  two 
years.  Mr.  May  is  just  like  a  son  to  me.  Lady  Russell  comes 
to  see  me  every  day  like  a  sister,  and  I  have  two  servants,  very 
superior  people,  who  nurse  me  just  as  if  I  were  their  mother. 
It  has  pleased  Providence  to  preserve  to  me  my  calmness  of 
mind  and  clearness  of  intellect,  and  also  my  powers  of  read- 
ing by  day  and  by  night,  and,  which  is  still  more,  my  love 
of  poetry  and  literature,  my  cheerfulness  and  my  enjoyment 
of  little  things.  This  very  day,  not  only  my  common  pen- 
sioners the  dear  robins,  but  a  saucy  troop  of  sparrows  and  a 
little  shining  bird  of  passage  whose  name  I  forget,  have  all 
been  pecking  at  once  at  their  tray  of  bread-crumbs  outside 
the  window.  Poor,  pretty  things !  How  much  delight 
there  is  in  these  common  objects,  if  people  would  learn  to 
enjoy  them  !  I  really  think  that  the  feeling  for  these  simple 
pleasures  is  increasing  with  the  increase  of  population." 

Miss  Mitford's  last  letter  to  Miss  Jephson  is  dated  January 
2, 1855.    She  refers  to  the  exertion  of  writing  the  above  letter: 

Yesterday,  dearest  Emily  (New  Year's  Day),  I  had  a  terri- 


Last  Letter.  455 

ble  attack  of  retching,  a  new  and  very  bad  symptom.  It 
came  on  after  writing,  and  therefore  I  seize  a  cahn  moment 
to  send  you  thanks  and  blessings,  and  to  say  that  you  will 
probably  receive  no  more  letters  from  your  poor  old  friend. 

May  God  be  with  you,  and  with  all  whom  you  love,  es- 
pecially Mr.  and  Mrs.  Starkey,  who  have  been  so  kind  to  me  ! 

Little  Mary  is  two  years  old  to-day. 

Ever  faithfully  yours,  M.  R.  Mitford. 

Miss  Mitford  to  Mrs.  Bennoch. 

Jan.  7, 1855. 

Thanks,  dearest  Mrs.  Bennoch,  for  all  your  goodness  past 
and  present.  May  God  long  bless  you  and  your  dear  hus- 
band with  everything  that  kind  hearts  can  wish  ! 

There  is  wonderful  vitality  in  me,  and  I  have  rallied  to  a 
certain  point.  But  I  must  write  no  more  notes  or  letters. 
They  say  that  exhaustion  of  the  brain  from  writing  brought 
on  the  sickness  that  alarmed  every  one  on  New  Year's  Day. 

Your  dear  husband  must  come  and  see  me- — I  suppose 
the  27  th,  but  will  let  him  know  if  not.     Ever  yours, 


M.  R.  Mitford. 


She  died  on  the  loth  of  January. 


Miss  Jephson,  in  sending  to  Mr.  Starkey  on  the  17th  of 
January  a  copy  of  Miss  Mitford's  letter  to  Mrs.  Crowther, 
dated  January  i,adds: 

"  You  and  Isabella  have  indeed  a  right  to  this  note  of  dear- 
est Miss  Mitford,  for  you  see  how  she  thought  of  you  and  of 
your  kindness  to  her  when  she  knew  that  she  was  dying. 

"  If  you  had  seen  her  you  would  have  known,  even  more 
than  you  can  now  do,  how  much  there  was  in  her  to  love  as 
well  as  to  admire;  but  then  your  grief  would  have  been 
greater. 

"  Do  you  think  that  Miss  Mitford's  letters  will  be  pub- 
lished? She  is  known  to  have  been  a  charming  letter- 
writer,  and  there  must  be  an  almost  inexhaustible  store  of 
them,  for  she  had  numerous  correspondents,  and  few  peo- 
ple, I  think,  would  destroy  such  letters." 


456  Conclusion. 

We  here  deposit  our  wreath  on  the  tomb  of  Mary  Russell 
Mitford.  Our  materials  are  not  exhausted,  but  we  have  ad- 
duced a  bright  array  of  witnesses  to  her  patience,  cheerful- 
ness, and  rare  mental  endowments.  She  left  the  world 
richer  for  a  noble  example,  and  few  have  been  so  warmly 
loved  or  so  deeply  regretted  by  English  hearts  on  both 
shores  of  the  Atlantic. 


\ 


INDEX. 


Accident,  312. 

Addison,  70. 

Address  for  Drury  Lane,  68. 

Alfieri,  263. 

Alhambra,  436. 

Amazon,  344. 

America,  138. 

Antislavery  Meeting,  276. 

Armstrong,  Mr.,  355. 

"  Atherton,"  32i,'322, 427, 434, 444. 

Austria,  248. 

Aynsley,  Lady  C,  11. 

Baillie,  Joanna,  221,  225,  412. 

Balzac,  386. 

Barnes,  Mr.,  143. 

Barrett,  Miss,  2,  197,  231,  241,  254. 

Beecher,  Lady,  239,  247. 

Beethoven,  93. 

"  Belford  Regis,"  203,  207,  210. 

Bennocli,  Mr.,  401,  402. 

Bentley,  Mr.,373. 

Beranger,  360,  402. 

Blackwood,  Mr.,  366. 

"  Blanch,"  45, 49. 

Bloomfield,  Col.,  64. 

Bonaparte,  66. 

Boner,  431, 432, 433. 

Bowdich,  Mrs.,  161. 

*'  Boz,"  249. 

Bronte,  Miss,  423. 

Brown,  Mr.,  273. 

Browning,  Mrs.,  318,  396. 

Bryant,  178. 

Bulwer,  Lytton,  343. 

Byron,  Lord,  109,  iii,  112,  353. 

Garden,  Mr.,  438. 

Carleton,  332-335,  336. 

Carlyle,  389,  390. 

Games,  Mr.,  141. 

Gervantes,  62. 

Ch.ibanncs,  Marquis  de,  16,  17,  i8. 

Chambers,  Mr.,  353. 


Cham-Hi,  68. 

Channing,  Dr.,  214,  223,  305. 
"  Charles  L,"  143,  162. 
Chesterfield,  Lord,  387. 
Chorley,  H.,  222,  227,  260,  296. 
Clanricarde,  Lord,  31. 
Clarendon,  Lord,  336. 
"  Clarissa  Harlowe,"  69,  71. 
Clive,  Mrs.,  298. 
Cobbett,  25,  36. 
Cockburn,  Lord,  384. 
Coleman,  Mr.,  162. 
Cornwallis,  Lord,  342. 
Cotton,  Bishop,  144. 
"  Country  Stories,"  249. 
Croft,  Sir  A.,  loi. 
"Cromwell,"  123. 
Cunningham,  A.,  133. 
Cushman,  Miss,  294. 

Dacre,  Lady,  82,  225. 

Dallas,  Mr.,  38. 

Davenport,  K.  A.,  39. 

Davis,  351. 

Delavigne,  408. 

Demidoff,  Count,  356. 

Dering,  Mrs.,  382. 

Devon,  192. 

Devonshire  Words,  63, 64. 

Dilke,  Mr.,  201. 

Dyce,  Rev.  A.,  132,  364. 

Edgeworth,  Miss,  65,  83,  90,  327, 

328. 
Englefield,  Sir  II.,  72. 
Ethiopia,  58. 
Eugenie,  Empress,  415. 
Everett,  Edward,  404. 

Fanshawe,  Miss,  397. 
Farren,  Miss,  257. 
Fields,  Mr.,  300,  307,  396,  417. 
Findcn,  Mr.,  241,  259,  261,  263. 
Florence,  300. 


20 


458 


Index. 


Flush,  286. 

P'onthill,  30. 

Forrest,  Miss,  151. 

"  Foscari,"  87,  88,  96,  99,  102. 

Fox,  23,  54. 

Franklin,  Captain,  100,  106. 

Galignani,  373. 

Garth,  242. 

Girardin,  Madame  de,  356. 

Glcnnie,  Mr.,  345,  346,  347. 

Goldsmid,  Miss,  399, 400,  410. 

Grasmere,  314. 

Greeiv  Drama,  243. 

Greyhounds,  92. 

Guizot,  392,  393. 

Gully,  Mr.,  175. 

Hall,  Captain,  158, 159, 165, 16S,  175, 

270. 
Hall,  Mr.  S.  C,  134,  152,  167,  275. 
Hall,  Mrs.,  141. 
Halloran,  Mrs.,  380. 
Hamilton,  Count  A.,  363. 
Hamilton,  Sir  W.,  334. 
Hans  Place,  166. 
Ilarcourt,  Lord,  202. 
Harcourt,  Vernon,  417. 
Harness,  Rev.  W.,  88,  113,  175,  274, 

400,  446. 
Hawthorne,  362,  383,  386,  410,  425. 
Haydon,  77,  83,  295,  296,  319,  423, 

425. 
Hemans,  Mrs.,  125. 
Herschel,  331,336. 
Hervieu,  M.,  122. 
Hoare,  Mrs.,  357. 
Hofland,  83,  86,  240. 
Hogmanay,  128. 
Holmes,  Dr.,  386,  421. 
Hompesch,  General,  18. 
Hood,  Thomas,  396. 
Hope,  Mr.,  349,  452,  453. 
Howe,  Dr.,  317. 
Huddleston,  415. 
Hugo,  Victor,  242,  393. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  78,  354. 
Hunt,  Mrs.,  428. 

Indians,  253. 
"  Inez,"  379, 
"Ion,"  216. 

Jameson,  Mrs.,  423. 
Jephson,  Miss,  412. 


Jerrold,  D.,  154,  297. 
"Judas,"  327,330. 
"Julian,"  '&$>,  105. 

Kean,  115,  116. 
Kemble,  C.,  91,  93,  114. 
Kemble,  Miss  F.,  150,  174,  183. 
Kenyon,  Mr.,  256,  257,  258. 
Kingsley,  Mr.,  369,  431. 
Knowle  Park,  209. 

Ladies'  College,  302. 

Lafayette,  121. 

Lamartine,  243,  374. 

Lamb,  Charles,  261. 

Landon,  Miss,  92, 123,  166, 167,  203, 

265,  267. 
Landor,  W.  S.,  437, 438. 
Landseer,  371. 
Layard,  Mr.,  391,  419,  420. 
Lefevre,  S.,  6,  7,  23. 
Lenthall,  369. 
Leslie,  C,  181. 
Lever,  398,  410,  413. 
Lewis,  Mr.,  371. 
"  Literary  Gazette,"  88. 
Longfellow,  305, 386. 
Louis  XVIII.,  II. 
Lovelace,  Lady,  417. 
Lucas,  140,  147,  304,  377. 

Macready,  104,  114-117,  119,  172. 

Madmen,  62. 

Malone,  349,411. 

Marlborough,  Duke  of,  44. 

Marriage  referred  to,  128,  134. 

Martin,  Mr.,  272,  273. 

Martineau,  Miss,  183,  184,  190,  224, 

277. 
May,  Mr.,  283, 388,  407,  429. 
"  Menenius,"  337,  338,  339. 
Miller,  Sir  T.,  33. 
Milman,  Dr.,  115,  118, 123,360. 
Milton,  Mr.,  368. 
Milton,  Mrs.,  120. 
Mitford,  Dr.,  282-284,  285,  287. 
Mitford,  Rev.  J.,  39. 
Monck,  Mr.,  5,  6,  16,  17,  18. 
Moore,  49,  194,  374. 
Motherwell,  361. 
"  Museum,  The,"  92. 

Napoleon,  Louis,  30S,  392,  396,  403, 

410. 
Netley  Abbey,  53,  54. 


Index. 


459 


Nicholls,  R.,  217. 
Normans,  89. 
Norris,  Miss,  450. 
Nottingham,  210. 

Olive,  149. 

Opie,  Mrs.,  258,  448. 

"  Orestes,"  98. 

"Our  Village,"  in,  125,  152,  156, 

157,  172,  187. 
Owen,  K.,  421. 

Parry,  Miss,  376. 

Parsons,  Dr.,  437,  440. 

Payne,  Mr.,  312,  314. 

Pearson,  Rev.  H.,  306, 307, 395, 426, 

440,  443- 
Peel,  Sir  R.,  196. 
Peele,  131. 
Pension,  245, 446. 
Perry,  Dr.,  7. 
Perry,  Mr.,  80. 
Phillips,  Miss,  150,  151. 
Phillips,  Mr.,  417. 
"  Poetical  Register,"  39,  46. 
Porden,  Miss,  88. 
Person,  Professor,  81. 
Porter,  Miss,  212,  213. 
Portrait,  304, 372,  377,  403, 427, 
Praed,  352,  399. 
Pratt,  S.  J.,  24. 
Pringle,  Mr.,  160. 
Procter,  B.  W.,  269. 

Queen  Victoria,  446. 
Quincey,  De,  314, 315,  386, 394. 

Raleigh,  381. 

"  Recollections,"  299. 

"Rienzi,"88, 106,  no,  115, 123, 131, 

133.  163. 
Roberts,  Miss,  166,  167. 
Ruskin,  308,  309,  311, 409. 
Russell,  Dr.,  43,  47. 
Russell,  Lord  J.,  334. 
Russell,  Lord  W.,  13. 
Russell,  Sir  C,  431,  447. 

St.  Quintin,  M.  de,  4,  5,  16,  21. 
Sand,  George,  358,  394. 
Scott,  Sir  W.,  49,  52,  174, 421. 
Sedgwick,  Miss,  168,  169. 
Sedgwick,  Theodore,  288. 
"  Seraphim,"  244. 
Seward,  Miss,  67. 


Sheepstor,  56. 
Shelley,  370. 
Sheridan,  82. 
Siddons,  Mrs.,  76. 
Silchester,  278. 
"  Sisters,  The,"  50,  60. 
Skerritt,  Miss,  159, 164. 
Smith,  A.,  425. 
Spain,  33,  44, 49. 
Sparks,  President,  404. 
Stael,  Madame  de,  356,  357. 
Stanfield,  123. 
Stanley,  IBishop,  443. 
Starkey,  D.,  327. 
Stewart,  Lord  H.,  448. 
Stoddard,  R.  H.,  404. 
Sfrathfieldsaye,  281. 
Strickland,  A.,  147,  203. 
Strickland,  C,  153. 
Strickland,  S.,  142. 
Suffolk,  149. 
Sullivan,  Mrs.,  267. 
Sunderland,  Lady,  411. 
Swallowfield,  300,  301,  324. 
Switzerland,  310. 

Talfourd,  Sergeant,   105,  154,   192, 

214,295,  296,420. 
Taylor,  B.,  326,  399,  404- 
Taylor,  T.,  423, 433. 
Tennyson,  297,  395, 426. 
Thackeray,  416. 
Throckmorton,  Sir  C,  208,  212. 
Ticknor,  G.,  215,  425. 
Tindal,  Mrs.,  391. 
Trent,  The,  188. 
TroUope,  Mrs.,  6,   115,   137-139. 

173- 
Tupper,  425. 

"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  386. 

Valpy,  Dr.,  38. 
Vardill,  Mrs.,  88,  90. 

"  Wakefield,  Vicar  of,"  31a 
Wales,  Prince  of,  9,  10. 
Walewski,  Count,  406. 
Wallack,  Mr.,  151. 
War,  67,  68. 

Warburton,  Eliot,  338, 339,  348. 
Webster,  Daniel,  214,  387,  389, 405. 
Wellington,  Duke  of,  44,  392. 
Westmacolt,  Mrs.,  182. 
Westmacott,  R.,  1S2. 


460 


Index. 


Weston  Grove,  53,  55. 
Wheble,  Rev.  J.,  450. 
Whittier,  J.  G.,  362. 
Willis,  N.  P.,  189,  191. 
Williams,  Mr.,  250. 
Wills,  150,  151. 
Wilson,  Effingham,  359. 


Wise,  Mr.,  73. 
Wood,  Leighton,  227. 
Worcester,  Bishop  of,  298. 
Wordsworth,  330,  365. 
Wrangham,  Archdeacon,  140. 

Young,  C,,  118,  119. 


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BYMONDS'S  GEEEK  POETS.  Studies  of  the  Greek  Poets.  By 
John  Addington  Symonds.    2  vols..  Square  16mo,  Cloth,  $3  50 

HUDSON'S  HISTOEY  OF  JOURNALISM.  Journalism  in  the 
United  States,  from  1G90  to  1 872.  By  Fbederio  Hodson.  8vo, 
Cloth,  $5  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 


Valuahle  WorTcs  for  Public  and  Private  Librariee.         3 

TREVELYAN'S  LIFE  OF  MACAULAY,  The  Life  and  Let- 
ters of  Lord  Macaulay.  By  his  Nejjliew,  G.  Otto  Treveltan, 
M.P.  With  Portrait  on  Steel.  Complete  in  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth, 
Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $5  00 ;  Sheep,  $G  00 ;  Half  Calf, 
$9  50.     Popular  Edition,  two  vols,  in  one,  12ino,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

TREVELYAN'S  LIFE  OF  FOX.  The  Early  History  of  Charles 
James  Fox.  By  George  Otto  Treveltan.  8vo,  Cloth,  Un- 
cut Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $2  50 ;  4to,  Paper,  20  cents. 

BENJAMIN'S  CONTEMPORARY  ART.  Contemporary  Art  in 
Europe.  By  S.  G.  \V.  Benjamin.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth, 
$3  50. 

BENJAMIN'S  ART  IN  AMERICA.  Art  in  America.  By  S.  G. 
W.  Benjamin.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

KINGLAKE'S  CRIMEAN  WAR.  The-Invasion  of  the  Crimea: 
its  Origin,  and  an  Account  of  its  Progress  down  to  the  Death 
of  Lord  Raglan.  By  Alexander  William  Kinglake.  With 
Maps  and  Plans.  Four  Volumes  now  ready.  12mo,  Cloth, 
$2  00  per  vol. 

LAMB'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Charles  Lamb. 
Comprising  his  Letters,  Poems,  Essays  of  Elia,  Essays  upon 
Shakspeare,  Hogarth,  etc.,  and  a  Sketch  of  his  Life,  with  the 
Final  Memorials,  by  T.  Noon  Talfodrd.  With  Portrait.  2 
vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

LOSSING'S  FIELD-BOOK  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  Picto- 
rial Field-Book  of  the  Revolution  ;  or.  Illustrations  by  Pen  and 
Pencil  of  the  History,  Biography,  Scenery,  Relics,  and  Traditions 
of  the  War  for  Independence.  By  Benson  J.  Lossino.  2  vols., 
Svo,  Cloth,  $U  00 ;  Sheep  or  Roan,  $15  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $18  00. 

LOSSING'S  FIELD-BOOK  OF  THE  WAR  OF  1812.  Picto- 
rial Field-Book  of  the  War  of  1812;  or.  Illustrations  by  Pen 
and  Pencil  of  the  History,  Biography,  Scenery,  Relics,  and  Tra» 
ditions  of  the  last  War  for  American  Independence.  By  Ben- 
son J.  LossiNG.  With  several  hundred  Engravings  on  Wood  by 
Lossing  and  Barritt,  chiefly  from  Original  Sketches  by  the  Au- 
thor. 1088  pages,  8vo,  Cloth,  $7  00;  Sheep,  $8  50;  Roan. 
$9  00;  Half  Calf,  i  10  00. 

FORSTEIl'S  LIFE  OF  DEAN  SWIFT.  The  Early  Life  of  Jon- 
athan Swift  (1GG7-1 711).  By  John  FonsTKR.  With  Portrait. 
Svo,  Cloth,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  $2  60. 


4  Valuable  Worhs  for  Public  and  PHvate  Libraries. 

LAWRENCE'S  HISTORICAL  STUDIES.  Historical  Studies. 
By  Eugene  Lawrence.  Containing  the  following  Essays  :  The 
Bishops  of  Rome. — Leo  and  Luther. — Loyola  and  the  Jesuits. 
— Ecumenical  Councils. — The  Vaudois. — The  Huguenots. — The 
Church  of  Jerusalem. — Dominic  and  the  Inquisition. — The  Con- 
quest of  Ireland. — The  Greek  Church.  8vo,  Cloth,  Uncut  Edges 
and  Gilt  Tops,  $3  00. 

GREEN'S  ENGLISH  PEOPLE.  History  of  the  English  People. 
By  John  Richard  Green,  M.A.  Four  Volumes.  8vo,  Cloth, 
$2  50  per  volume. 

SHORTS  NORTH  AMERICANS  OF  ANTIQUITY.  The 
North  Americans  of  Antiquity.  Their  Origin,  Migrations,  and 
Type  of  Civilization  Considered.  By  John  T.  Short.  Illus- 
trated.    8vo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

SQUIER'S  PERU.  Peru :  Incidents  of  Travel  and  Exploration 
in  the  Land  of  the  Incas.  By  E.  George  Squier,  M.A., 
F.S.A.,  late  U.  S.  Commissioner  to  Peru.  With  Illustrations. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

BLAIKIE'S  LIFE  OF  DAVID  LIVINGSTONE.  Dr.  Living- 
stone: Memoir  of  his  Personal  Life,  from  his  Unpublished 
Journals  and  Correspondence.  By  W.  G.  Blaikie,  D.D.,  LL.D. 
Witli  Portrait  and  Map.     8vo,  Cloth,  $2  25. 

MAURY'S  PHYSICAL  GEOGRAPHY  OF  THE  SEA.  Tlie 
Physical  Geograjjhy  of  the  Sea,  and  its  Meteorology.  By  M. 
F.  Maury,  LL.D.     8vo,  Cloth,  $-1  00. 

SCHWEINFURTH'S  HEART  OF  AFRICA.  The  Heart  of 
Africa.  Three  Years'  Travels  and  Adventures  in  the  Unex- 
plored Regions  of  the  Centre  of  Africa — from  18C8  to  1871.  By 
Dr.  Georg  Schweinfurth.  Translated  by  Ellen  E.  Frewer. 
With  an  Introduction  by  W.  Winwood  Reade.  Illustrated.  2 
vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $8  00. 

M'CLINTOCK  &  STRONG'S  CYCLOPiEDIA.  Cyclopaedia  of 
Biblical,  Theological,  and  Ecclesiastical  Literature.  Prepared 
by  the  Rev.  John  M'Clintock,  D.D.,and  James  Strong,  S.T.D. 
10  vols,  now  ready  Royal  8vo.  Price  per  vol..  Cloth,  $5  00; 
Sheep,  $G  00  ;  Half  Morocco,  $8  00. 

SHAKSPEARE,  The  Dramatic  Works  of  William  Shakspeare. 
With  Corrections  and  Notes.  Engravings.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth, 
$9  00.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00  j  Sheep,  $5  00.  In  one  vol., 
8vo,  Sheep,  $4  00. 


Valuable  W&rJc^  for  Public  and  Private  Libraries.         5 

3I0nAM]VIED  AND  MOHAMMEDANISM:  Lectures  Deliv- 
ered at  the  Royal  Institution  of  Great  Britain  in  February  and 
March,  1874.  By  R.  Boswortu  Smith,  M. A.  With  an  Ap- 
pendix containing  Emanuel  Deutsch's  Article  on  "Islam." 
12mo,  Cloth,  $150. 

LIVINGSTONE'S  SOUTH  AFRICA.  Missionary  Travels  and 
Researches  in  South  Africa :  including  a  Sketch  of  Sixteen 
Years'  Residence  in  the  Interior  of  Africa,  and  a  Journey  from 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  to  Loanda  on  the  West  Coast ;  thence 
across  the  Continent,  down  the  River  Zambesi,  to  the  Eastern 
Ocean.  By  David  Livingstone,  LL.D.,  D.C.L.  With  Por- 
trait, Maps,  and  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  50 ;  Sheep,  $5  00 ; 
Half  Calf,  $G  75. 

LIVINGSTONE'S  ZAMBESL  Narrative  of  an  Expedition  to 
the  Zambesi  and  its  Tributaries,  and  of  the  Discovery  of  the 
Lakes  Sliirwa  and  Nyassa,  1 858-1 8G4.  By  David  and  Charles 
Livingstone.  Map  and  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00;  Sheep, 
$5  50;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

LIVINGSTONE'S  LAST  JOURNALS.  The  Last  Journals  of 
David  Livingstone,  in  Central  Africa,  from  18G5  to  his  Death. 
Continued  by  a  Narrative  of  his  Last  Moments  and  Sutterings, 
obtained  from  his  Faithful  Ser^•ants  Chuma  and  Susi.  By 
Horace  Waller,  F.R.G.S.,  Rector  of  Twywell,  Northampton. 
With  Portrait,  Maps,  and  Illustrations.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00; 
Sheep,  $5  50  ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25.  Cheap  Popular  Edition,  8vo, 
Cloth,  with  Map  and  Illustrations,  $2  50. 

NORDIIOFF'S  COMMUNISTIC  SOCIETIES  OF  THE  UNIT- 
ED STATES.  The  Communistic  Societies  of  the  United  States, 
from  Personal  Visit  and  Observation ;  including  Detailed  Ac- 
counts of  the  Economists,  Zoarites,  Shakers,  the  Amana,  Onei- 
da, Bethel,  Aurora,  Icarian,  and  other  existing  Societies.  With 
Particulars  of  their  Religious  Creeds  and  Practices,  their  Social 
Theories  and  Life,  Numbers,  Industries,  and  Present  Condition. 
By  Charles  Nordhoff.     Illustrations.     8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

NORDIIOFF'S  CALIFORNIA.  California:  for  Health,  Pleas- 
ure, and  Residence.  A  Book  for  Travellers  and  Settlers.  Il- 
lustrated.    8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

NORDHOFF'S  NORTHERN  CALIFORNIA  AND  THE  SAND. 
WICH  ISLANDS.  Northern  California,  Oregon,  and  the  Sand- 
wich Islands.  By  Chables  Nordhoff.  Illustrated.  Sro,  Cloth, 
$2  50. 


6  Valiuxble  Works  for  Public  and  Private  Lilraries. 

MOSHEIM'S  ECCLESIASTICAL  HISTORY,  Ancient  and  Mod- 
ern ;  in  which  the  Rise,  Progress,  and  Variation  of  Church  Pow- 
er are  considered  in  their  Connection  witli  the  State  of  Learn- 
ing and  Philosophy,  and  the  Political  History  of  Europe  during 
that  Period.  Translated,  with  Notes,  etc.,  by  A.  Maclaine, 
D.D.  Continued  to  1826,  by  C.  Coote,  LL.D,  2  vols.,  8vo, 
Cloth,  $i  00 ;  Sheep,  $5  00. 

HARPER'S  NEW  CLASSICAL  LIBRARY.  Literal  Transla- 
tions. 

The  following  volumes  are  now  ready.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00 
each. 

Cksar. — Virgil. — Sallust. — Hokace.  —  Cicero's  Ora- 
tions.—  Cicero's  Offices,  etc.  —  Cicero  on  Oratory  and 
Orators. — Tacitus  (2  vols.). — Terence. — Sophocles. — Ju- 
venal.— Xenopiion. — Homer's  Iliad. — Homer's  Odyssey. — 
Herodotus.  —  Demosthenes  (2  vols.). — Thuctdides. — -iEs- 
CHYLus. — Euripides  (2  vols.). — Livy  (2  vols.). — Plato  [Select 
Dialogues]. 

VINCENT'S   LAND    OF  THE  WHITE  ELEPHANT.      The 

Land  of  the  White  Elephant :  Siglits  and  Scenes  in  Southeastern 
Asia.  A  Personal  Narrative  of  Travel  and  Adventure  in  Far- 
ther India,  embracing  the  Countries  of  Burma,  Siam,  Cambodia, 
and  Cochin-China  (1871-2).  By  Frank  Vincent,  Jr.  Illus- 
trated.    Crown  Svo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 

GROTE'S  HISTORY  OF  GREECE.  12  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth, 
818  00  ;  Sheep,  $22  80  ;  Half  Calf,  $39  00. 

RECLUS'S  EARTH.  The  Earth:  a  Descriptive  History  of  the 
Phenomena  of  the  Life  of  the  Globe.  By  Elis^e  Reclus. 
With  234  Maps  and  Illustrations,  and  23  Page  Maps  printed  in 
Colors.     Svo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

RECLUS'S  OCEAN.  The  Ocean,  Atmosphere,  and  Life.  Being 
the  Second  Series  of  a  Descriptive  History  of  the  Life  of  the 
Globe.  By  £li8ee  Reclus.  Profusely  Illustrated  with  250 
Maps  or  Figures,  and  27  Maps  printed  in  Colors.  Svo,  Cloth, 
$6  00, 

GRIFFIS'S  JAPAN.  The  Mikado's  Empire :  Book  I.  History  of 
Japan,  from  G60  B.C.  to  1872  A.D.  Book  II.  Personal  Expe- 
riences, Observations,  and  Studies  in  Japan,  1870-1874.  By 
William  Elliot  Griffis,  A.M.,  late  of  the  Imperial  University 
of  Tukio,  Japan.  Copiously  Illustrated.  Svo,  Cloth,  $4  00  ; 
Half  Calf,  $6  25. 


Valuable  Works  for  Public  and  Private  Libraries.         7 

BAKER'S  ISMAILIA.  Ismailia  :  a  Narrative  of  the  Expedition 
to  Central  Africa  for  the  Suppression  of  the  Slave-trade,  organ- 
ized by  Ismail,  Khedive  of  Egypt.  By  Sir  Samuel  Whitb  Ba- 
ker, Pasha,  F.K.S.,  F.R.G.S.  With  Maps,  Portraits,  and  Il- 
lustrations.    8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

SMILES'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  HUGUENOTS.  The  Hugue- 
nots: their  Settlements,  Churches,  and  Industries  in  England 
and  Ireland.  By  Samuel  Smiles.  With  an  Appendix  relat- 
ing to  the  Huguenots  in  America.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

SMILES'S  HUGUENOTS  AFTER  THE  REVOCATION.  The 
Huguenots  in  France  after  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes ; 
with  a  Visit  to  the  Country  of  the  Vaudois.  By  Samuel  Smiles. 
Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

SMILES'S  LIFE  OF  THE  STEPHENSONS.  The  Life  of 
George  Stephenson,  and  of  his  Son,  Robert  Stephenson ;  com- 
prising, also,  a  History  of  the  Invention  and  Introduction  of 
the  Railway  Locomotive.  By  Samuel  Smiles.  With  Steel 
Portraits  and  numerous  Illustrations.     Bvo,  Cloth,  $3  00. 

NORTON'S  STUDIES  OF  CHURCH-BUILDING.  Historical 
Studies  of  Church -Building  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Venice, 
Siena,  Florence.  By  Chakles  Eliot  Norton.  Bvo,  Cloth, 
S3  00. 

ALISON'S  HISTORY  OF  EUROPE.  First  Series  :  From  the 
Commencement  of  the  French  Revolution,  in  1789,  to  the  Res- 
toration of  the  Bourbons  in  1815,  [In  addition  to  the  Notes 
on  Chapter  LXXVI.,  which  correct  the  errors  of  the  original 
work  concerning  the  United  States,  a  copious  Analytical  Index 
has  been  appended  to  this  American  Edition.]  Second  Series  : 
From  the  Fall  of  Napoleon,  in  1815,  to  tlie  Accession  of  Louis 
Napoleon,  in  1852.  8  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $1G  00 ;  Sheep,  $20  00 ; 
Half  Calf,  $34  00. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON:  HIS  WORDS  AND  HIS  WAYS;  what 

he  Said,  what  he  Did,  and  what  Men  Thought  and  Spoke  con- 
cerning him.     Edited  by  E.  T.  Mason.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

JOHNSON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Samuel 
Johnson,  LL.D.  With  an  Essay  on  his  Life  and  Genius,  by  A. 
Murphy.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00 ;  Sheep,  $5  00 ;  Half  Calf, 
$8  50. 


8         Valuable  Wor}:s  for  Public  and  Private  Libraries. 

SCHLIEMANN'S  ILIOS.  Ilios,  the  City  and  Country  of  the 
Trojans.  A  Narrative  of  the  Most  Recent  Discoveries  and  Re- 
searches made  on  the  Plain  of  Troy.  With  Illustrations  rep- 
resenting nearly  2000  Types  of  the  Objects  found  in  the  Ex- 
cavations of  the  Seven  Cities  on  the  Site  of  Ilios.  By  Dr. 
Henkt  Schliemann.  Maps,  Plans,  and  Illustrations.  Impe- 
rial 8vo,  Illuminated  Cloth,  $12  00. 

BOSWELL'S  JOHNSON.  The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D., 
including  a  Journal  of  a  Tour  to  the  Hebrides.  By  James 
BoswELL.  Edited  by  J.  W.  Crokek,  LL.D.,  F.R.S.  With  a 
Portrait  of  Boswell.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  f  4  GO  ;  Sheep,  #5  00 ; 
Half  Calf,  $8  50. 

ADDISON'S  COMPLETE  WORKS.  The  Works  of  Joseph 
Addison,  embracing  the  whole  of  the  Spectator.  3  vols.,  8vo, 
Cloth,  $6  00;  Sheep,  $7  50;  Half  Calf,  $12  75. 

BOURNE'S  LOCKE.  The  Life  of  John  Locke.  By  H.  R. 
Fox  Bourne.  2  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops, 
$5  00. 

ENGLISH  CORRESPONDENCE.  Four  Centuries  of  English 
Letters.  Selections  from  the  Correspondence  of  One  Hundred 
and  Fifty  Writers  from  the  Period  of  the  Paston  Letters  to 
the  Present  Day.    Edited  by  W.  Baptiste  Scoones.     12mo, 

Cloth,  $2  00. 

THE  STUDENT'S  SERIES.  Maps  and  Illustrations.  12mo, 
Cloth. 
France.  —  Gibbon.  —  Greece. — Rome  (by  Liddell).  —  Old 
Testament  History. — New  Testament  History. — Strick- 
land's Queens  of  England  (Abridged). — Ancient  History 
of  the  East. — Hallam's  Middle  Ages. — Hallam's  Con- 
stitutional History  of  England. — Lyell's  Elements  op 
Geology. — Merivale's  General  History  of  Rome. — Cox's 
General  IIlstory  of  Greece. — Classical  Dictionary. 
$1  25  per  volume. 

Lewls's  History  of  Germany. — Ecclesiastical  Histo- 
ry.— Hume's  England.     $1  50  par  volume. 

CAMERON'S  ACROSS  AFRICA.  Across  Africa.  By  Vernet 
LovETT  Cameron.     Map  and  Illustrations.     8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 

BULWER'S  MISCELLANEOUS  PROSE  WORKS.  The  Mis- 
cellaneous Prose  Works  of  Lord  Lytton.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth, 
$3  50.    Also,  in  uniform  style,  Caxtoniana.    12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 


Valuable  WorJcs  for  Public  and  Private  Librarka.         9 

CARLYLES  FREDEllICK  THE  GREAT.  History  of  Fiiedrich 
II.,  called  Frederick  the  Great.  By  Thomas  Carltle.  Por- 
traits, Maps,  Plans,  etc.  6  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $7  50  ;  Sheep, 
$9  90 ;  Half  Calf,  $18  00. 

CARLYLE'S  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  The  French  Revolu- 
tion :  a  History.  By  Thomas  Carltle.  2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth, 
$2  50 ;  Sheep,  $3  30 ;  Half  Calf,  $6  00. 

CARLYLE'S  OLIVER  CROMWELL.  Oliver  Cromwell's  Let- 
ters and  Speeches,  including  the  Supplement  to  the  First  Edi- 
tion. With  Elucidations.  By  Thomas  Carltle.  2  vols., 
12mo,  Cloth,  $2  50 ;  Sheep,  $3  30 ;  Half  Calf,  $6  00. 

ABBOTT'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

The  French  Revolution  of  1789,  as  viewed  in  the  Light  of 
Repuhlican  Institutions.  By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  Illustrated. 
8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00 ;  Sheep,  $5  50  ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

ABBOTTS  NAPOLEON.  The  History  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
By  John  S.  C.  Abbott.  Maps,  Illustrations,  and  Portraits.  2 
vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  $10  00;  Sheep,  $11  00  ;  Half  Calf,  $14  50. 

ABBOTT'S  NAPOLEON  AT  ST.  HELENA.  Napoleon  at  St. 
Helena;  or,  Anecdotes  and  Conversations  of  the  Emperor  dur- 
ing the  Years  of  his  Captivity.  Collected  from  the  Memorials 
of  Las  Casas,  O'Meara,  Montholon,  Antommarchi,  and  others. 
By  J.  S.  C.  Abbott.  Illustrated.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00;  Sheep, 
$5  50 ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

ABBOTT'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.  The  History  of  Fred- 
erick the  Second,  called  Frederick  the  Great.  By  John  S.  C. 
Abbott.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00  ;  Half  Calf,  $7  25. 

DRAPER'S  CIVIL  WAR.  History  of  the  American  Civil  War. 
By  John  W.  Draper,  M.D.,  LL.D.  3  vols.,  8vo,  Cloth,  Bev- 
elled Edges,  $10  50  ;  Sheep,  $12  00  ;  Half  Calf,  $17  25. 

DRAPER'S  INTELLECTUAL  DEVELOPMENT  OF  EU- 
ROPE. A  History  of  the  Intellectual  Development  of  Eu- 
rope. By  John  W.  Draper,  M.D.,  LL.D.  New  Edition,  Re- 
vised.    2  vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  $3  00  ;  Half  Calf,  $G  50. 

DRAPER'S  AMERICAN  CIVIL  POLICY.  Thoughts  on  tho 
Future  Civil  Policy  of  America.  By  John  W,  Draper,  M.D., 
LL.D.     Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  00 ;  Half  Morocco,  $3  75. 


10        ValuahU  Worlcs  for  Public  and  Private  Libraries. 

MCCARTHY'S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND.  A  History  of  Our 
Own  Times,  from  tlie  Accession  of  Queen  Victoria  to  the  Gen- 
eral Election  of  1880.     By  Justin  McCarthy.     2  vols.,  12mo, 

Cloth,  $2  50. 

PERRY'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  ENGLAND.     A 

History  of  the  English  Church,  from  the  Accession  of  Henry 
VIII.  to  the  Silencing  of  Convocation.  By  G.  G.  PERitr,  M.A. 
With  a  Sketch  of  the  History  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church  in  the  United  States,  by  J.  A.  Spencer,  S.T.D.  Crown 
8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

ABBOTT'S  DICTIONARY  OF  RELIGIOUS  KNOWLEDGE. 

A  Dictionary  of  Religious  Knowledge,  for  Popular  and  Profes- 
sional Use ;  comprising  full  Information  on  Biblical,  Tiieologi- 
cal,  and  Ecclesiastical  Subjects.  With  nearly  1000  Maps  and 
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PARTON'S  CARICATURE.  Caricature  and  Other  Comic  Art, 
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MAHAFFY'S  GREEK  LITERATURE.  A  History  of  Classical 
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DU  CHAILLU'S  EQUATORIAL  AFRICA.  Explorations  and 
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DU  CHAILLU'S  ASHANGO  LAND.  A  Journey  to  Ashango 
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DEXTER'S  CONGREGATIONALISM.  The  Congregationalism 
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with  Special  Reference  to  certain  Recondite,  Neglected,  or  Dis- 
puted Passages.  With  a  Bibliographical  Appendix.  By  H.  iM. 
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TROLLOPE'S  CICERO.  Life  of  Cicero.  By  Anthony  Tbol- 
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BAYNE'S  LESSONS  FROM  MY  MASTERS.  Lessons  from 
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STANLEY'S  THROUGH  THE  DARK  CONTINENT.  Through 
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ENGLISH  MEN  OF  LETTERS.  Edited  by  John  Morlet. 
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STRICKLAND'S  (Miss)  QUEENS  OF  SCOTLAND.  Lives  of 
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BARTLETT'S  FROM  EGYPT  TO  PALESTINE.  From  Egypt 
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CESNOLA'S  CYPRUS.  Cyprus :  its  Ancient  Cities,  Tombs, 
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